


Mass Effect Minifics

by servantofclio



Series: Val Shepard [6]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Gen, collection of ficlets, various characters featured
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:09:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 30,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short fics set in the Mass Effect universe. Various characters, no particular order. I've listed the major characters or pairing in the chapter titles, so it's easier to find what you're looking for. When Shepard appears, it is typically the Val Shepard of many of my other fics, including "Life, Letter by Letter."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Candle (Shepard/Garrus)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: two characters by candlelight. Set late in ME3.

There was a thump and a whir, and the whole apartment went dark. In the office, Shepard stared helplessly at her terminal. “What the hell just happened?”

 

“Power’s out,” Garrus called from the other room, his voice echoing strangely now that all the background hum of appliances was silent.

 

“The power just goes out? On the Citadel?”

 

“Sometimes.” It sounded like he was moving around. She caught a glow out of the corner of her eye, probably the light on his omni-tool. “Keepers re-route something, grid gets overloaded somewhere, you know. Check your omni-tool.”

 

She lit it up, the usual orange glow seeming too bright in the darkness. A new message from Citadel Utilities popped up. “Hey, Garrus?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“The good news is, they know about the outage. The bad news is, it could be hours before they fix it.”

 

“Hm. Do you have flares or anything? I don’t know how long the battery in the omni-tool is going to last.”

 

Shepard made a face, not that he could see it. “I don’t think so—oh, wait!” She got out of her chair and tripped over something before she remembered to light up her own omni-tool. She managed to get to the kitchen without further incident and found what she was looking for in a drawer. “I’ve got candles,” she announced, pulling tapers out of the drawer.

 

“Candles,” said Garrus from the doorway, sounding skeptical. “Why do you have candles?”

 

“I don’t know. I think maybe Kahlee left them.” She managed to get her omni-tool’s mini-fabricator to spit out some makeshift candle holders, and enough of a spark to light the first candle. She used that one to light another half-dozen or so.

 

“That still doesn’t explain why she and Anderson had them.”

 

Shepard shrugged. “They’re supposed to be romantic.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Oh, come on.” She picked up a pair of candles and approached him. “Dim light... flickering flames... it all encourages a certain... intimate... mood, doesn’t it?” She leaned in close, pressing the candle holders into his hands, looking up at him through her lashes. “Plus, I thought you were the one who did all that research?”

 

He flicked a mandible as he accepted the candles. “The research was good at indicating _what_ humans do, Shepard. It wasn’t very good at indicating _why_.”

 

She turned back to pick up another pair of candles, and ushered him with her into the living room, depositing all of the candles on the table and herself on the couch. “Are you trying to tell me humans are that mysterious?”

 

“No.” He sat down next to her, though not close enough. “You’re a little confusing, though. Collectively.”

 

The dim light of the candles cast his eyes into shadow, and the light flickering along his scars made them look rougher and more ominous. He looked older, darker, mysterious himself as he tilted his head toward her. Shepard slid closer, pressing her thigh against his, her shoulder against his side, and wrapping her arm around his back, low, where it began to narrow. “You’re telling me you don’t find this at all appealing?”

 

He breathed out a short laugh, ruffling her hair, and his arm slid around her shoulders, pulling her more firmly into him. “I always find you appealing. Doesn’t have much to do with the candles.”

 

She’d take it, she decided, even if he was being contrary, and turned her face up for a kiss.

 


	2. Stars (Shepard/Garrus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard and Garrus go stargazing. Somewhere in ME2.

“Joker says he doesn’t have a good approach vector here,” said Shepard, glancing at their surroundings: in a narrow cleft with steep hills on one side and some kind of forest on the other. “What’s the verdict?”

 

“Fuel cell’s damaged,” Garrus reported, pulling himself out of the guts of the Hammerhead. “It can recharge, but it’s going to take a few hours. What the hell did you do to it, Shepard?”

 

“It wasn’t me, it was that damned icy planet Cerberus wanted me to check out,” she said. “How was I supposed to know that would have long-term consequences? You should be grateful I respected your delicate turian sensibilities and didn’t ask you to go along that time.”

 

“Believe me, I am.” Garrus found a rag from the vehicle’s tool kit and wiped off his hands. “So I guess we’re stranded until we’ve got enough fuel to get to somewhere more open?”

 

“That’s about the size of it,” she agreed. “At least it’s warm here?”

 

He hummed in assent.

 

It was a balmy night, reminding her of the summers of her childhood. The sun had set about half an hour earlier, and the faintest hint of a breeze cooled her face. Looking around, Shepard spotted a rock with a broad, flattish surface, marched over and settled down on it. She might as well rest somewhere semi-comfortable. After a few minutes, Garrus followed. “Mind if I join you?”

 

“Not at all. Have a seat.” She tipped her head back. “Wow.”

 

The star field that hung above them was immense and dazzling. Here, far from any settlement, no light interfered with the glow of the stars, like a field of diamonds, large and small, layers of them, seeming to go on forever.

 

“Impressive,” Garrus said, softly, with what sounded like genuine awe.

 

Shepard cleared her throat, keenly conscious of how near he was, their hips almost touching. “Anything look familiar?”

 

“That way” –he extended an arm—“is Palaven’s sun. Trebia.”

 

Shepard tilted her head to follow the line of his arm and finger toward a cluster of stars. “You knew that right off?”

 

“No,” he said, tapping his visor.

 

“Cheater,” she told him with a grin, and leaned against his shoulder.

 

He went very still. It wasn’t that long since she’d taken her courage in both hands and made her approach. It had been one of the more awkward conversations of her life, and she still couldn’t believe some of the things that had come out of her mouth. They were both feeling their way into... whatever it was that they were doing, exactly. But surely here, away from any chance of observation, they could relax a little.

 

“Shepard...” he said, before breaking off abruptly. “Look!”

 

She almost missed it: a brilliant streak tearing across the sky. She would have thought it was the _Normandy_ , but it was followed by another, and then another.

 

“A meteor shower,” she breathed, watching as the sky seemed to light up with falling stars. She couldn’t have stopped smiling if she tried. When she turned to Garrus, she saw a matching smile on his face, and they settled back to watch the show.


	3. Protect (Shepard/Garrus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Protect. Set in ME3.

After all the battles they’ve fought together, the three of them know the drill. Shepard takes point, pushes ahead, draws attention; Tali backs her up, uses her drone as distraction, hacks the enemy tech; and Garrus brings up the rear, surveys the scene, picks off the opposition.

 

Shepard clears out her end of the battlefield and turns around to scan the area, breathing hard. Tali is fine, hunkered down under cover; there are a few marauders in her area, but she’s safe enough for the moment. Garrus found himself a sniper’s perch among some abandoned equipment... but there’s a brute bearing down on his position and he doesn’t have a lot of room to run. He doesn’t seem to have noticed it yet. She’ll give him shit about that later. For now, it’s faster to act than to speak.

 

Biotic charge used to be more of an effort, something she geared up for, something that left her slightly dizzy. Now it’s like flexing a muscle. A moment of concentration, she clenches her fist... and she’s there, slamming into the brute’s shoulder, catching it off guard. Shepard steps back and fires round after round at it, until her thermal clip pops out, spent. She slams a new one in and shoots again. She’s seen enough brutes by now that she knows where to find the weak points in their strange hybrid bodies. The brute roars and rears above her, its attention now totally fixed on her. Shepard braces for its charge.

 

A sniper rifle cracks at close range, and the brute’s misshapen head comes right off. The body collapses more slowly, almost comically.

 

“Nice shot,” she calls.

 

“Thanks,” Garrus calls back.

 

“Just watch it, Garrus, he almost had you.”

 

“Noted.”

 

Later he’ll claim that he knew the brute was there all along, or that he could handle one at close quarters. Later she’ll mock his observational skills mercilessly. On the field, it’s back to work; Garrus hits the marauder closest to Tali with an overload, and Shepard charges again.


	4. Manuel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I started a new game of ME1, and wondered whatever became of the unfortunate scientist's apprentice you meet on Eden Prime. Where might he have been when the Reapers invaded?

When the Reapers attacked Earth, there were a handful of Alliance officers who were expecting it. Not at that precise moment, perhaps, but the signs were there to see, for those who had paid attention to Shepard’s warnings.

 

The rest of the population was caught completely unawares. In spite of all the rumors and scuttlebutt that had circulated since the Geth War of three years earlier, the idea of actually being attacked by giant killing machines was the province of extranet conspiracy theories, not real life.

 

Only one person on the planet was not surprised.

 

“Manuel,” said the nurse kindly, “it’s time for your medication.”

 

The patient looked up from the puzzle he was putting together. “They’re coming,” he told her solemnly.

 

She blinked. She hadn’t been working on the psychiatric ward long, and she wasn’t used to all the patients yet. “Who’s coming?”

 

“The machines,” he told her. “They’ll be here today.”

 

She had other patients to see to, and not a lot of time. “Well, that’s nice,” she said.

 

He shook his head, but took the pills and water she gave him compliantly. As she walked away, she thought she heard him say, “No. It won’t be.”

 

It had been a long time since Eden Prime, and the various drugs he’d been put on over the years meant that he didn’t always have the dreams any more. But Manuel still remembered.

 

Humans’ time was over. The hour of destruction was at hand.

 

Two hours later, the comm buoys at the Charon relay went silent, cutting Earth off from the rest of the galaxy.

 

Soon after that, the Reapers descended on Earth’s cities. They came to the hospitals for the harvest. Earth’s sick and dying would become their shock troops. The hospital’s security guards were no match for the hordes that the Reapers had brought to Earth.

 

As they put Manuel on the spike, as the cybernetics wormed their way through his flesh, his last thought was relief, that they day he had so long known was coming had finally arrived.

 

 


	5. Elegy for the Mako

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tribute to my favorite ground assault vehicle.

The cold freezes its gears and drains its fuel cells. Ice seeps in through the cracked hatch, coats the interior, the seats, the guns, the casing of the eezo core.

 

It has been other places. Sulfur and lava have licked at it, rain and hail have battered it, deadly spores have covered it in layers. Acid has eaten away at its tough shell, boulders have torn its undercarriage, plasma and rifle fire have scored it. Once a krogan kicked it. It has been more pleasant places, too. It has driven along the shallows of a glimmering beach, the water rushing around its tires. It has sat in the sunshine, waiting for its crew to return. Deft hands have repaired it, removed grime and debris, lubricated and polished and adjusted.

 

It has traversed stars, unlike others of its kind, a bouncing race, top speed all the way, caught in air and light before crashing down across the galaxy, gravity suddenly out of tune.

 

It has played its part, and as it sits in the cold, perhaps it dreams of its moment of glory.


	6. Rain (Shepard/Garrus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kissing in the rain.

The sky is gray and heavy-looking, and sure enough, it starts raining not long after they’ve gone out. Shepard flings her arms wide and turns her face up into the rain, letting the chilly drops run across her face, down her neck, into her collar. She can feel water soaking into her hair. She’s going to be cold eventually, but for now, it feels pleasantly cool on her skin. She twirls in a circle, letting the rain wash over her, sticking out her tongue to catch a few cold drops.

Beside her, Garrus grumbles, ducks his head, and hunches his shoulders against the chill. Water slides right off his plates, leaving a shine, but soaks into the crevices between. He actually squirms as water gets under his collar, but he doesn’t turn back or complain, and he’s wearing a fond expression while he watches her act like a fool in the rain.

Her breath catches. Two steps put her into his space. He looks surprised as she reaches up, framing his face in her hands. His mandibles, slick with rain, flex slightly against her palms as she draws his head down and kisses him.

His mouth feels like suede against her lips, both of them damp. He tastes like himself, metal and leather and dusty Palaven spices she doesn’t have a name for, but also like rain, cool and fresh and sharp. He gathers her in, arms around her, heedless of wet clothes. She rises onto her toes, trusting his strength to support her as the rain comes down harder, soaking them both to the skin. By the time she’s done, she’s cold everywhere but her lips, warm and tingling. She grins at his expression, affectionate and bemused, and thinks she might just have to kiss him again, rain or no.


	7. Krogan Hugs (Shepard, Grunt, and Mordin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the title says. ME3.

“Shepaaarrd!” Grunt slurred, and attacked.

 

When Shepard went to the medbay to check on the krogan after they departed from Utukku, she had not expected to be enveloped by a krogan bear hug. She staggered under Grunt’s considerable weight and awkwardly patted at the leathery hide of his massive arms. She could barely see over Grunt’s shoulder, but she thought Eve looked amused behind her elaborate veil.

 

“I mish- mith- missed you,” Grunt informed her, his head bumping heavily against her own.

 

“I, uh, missed you, too, Grunt,” she said, bracing herself against the weight of true krogan. “What brought this on?”

 

He drew back, blinking great blue eyes that were a little glazed. “I jusht wanted you to know.”

 

“That’s nice.” Shepard tried to figure out how to extract herself. Fortunately, the door whisked open behind her.

 

“Hey, Shepard—”

 

“Turian!” Grunt cried, and left Shepard, lunging the few steps to embrace Garrus, who made an undignified yelping noise that Shepard’s translator didn’t render into words. “Garrush. Ma- My _favorite_ turian!”

 

“How many turians do you know?” Garrus demanded, mostly obscured behind Grunt.

 

“One,” Grunt said. “No, two... three...” He backed up so he could count off on his thick fingers, allowing Garrus to stagger free.

 

Shepard said, “Mordin, what the hell did you give him?”

 

“Analgesic. Something to counter effects of rachni acid,” the salarian said, watching the krogan sway in place as he counted and mumbled. “Should note effects of combination.”

 

“Good point,” Shepard observed. “If we ever need him really mellow again. But maybe ease off on the dosage next time.”

 

Grunt abruptly sat down on the floor, chuckling softly. Mordin sniffed. “Agreed.”


	8. Worries (Shepard/Garrus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after the Leviathan mission. In my game, this took place right before Thessia.

When the door to her quarters slid open, she said, “I’m really fine,” without looking up from the terminal. She did feel fine, the headache completely gone, although Chakwas had given her every neural scan they could manage and instructed her to rest. As usual, she was defying medical orders by answering her mail.

There was a pause, the doors sliding shut, and she heard the faint scrape of footsteps. “Uh huh,” said Garrus. “Seems like I’ve heard that before.”

 

She swiveled her chair around, to see him regarding her recent acquisition warily. “I can’t believe you actually brought that thing on board,” he said.

 

She smiled and shrugged. “Consider it a souvenir.”

 

“Hope it doesn’t bite too hard.”

 

She thought of Leviathan, and her smile fell away. “Yeah,” she muttered. “Me too.”

 

Garrus did not comment on her changed mood, but simply came close and put his hand on her shoulder. She was grateful; it was hard enough for her to stop second-guessing her own decisions without listening to someone else’s doubts. She owed him for more than that, too. “Thank you,” she said, looking up.

 

His face shifted into an expression of honest puzzlement. “What for?”

 

“You pulled me out of fire when I was in no condition to fight?” Truth was, she’d barely been able to walk. Her memory of everything after the Leviathan was a little hazy, actually. Afterward, she’d watched the action from the camera feeds that everyone, plus the Kodiak, carried.

 

“Oh.” Garrus stepped back and rubbed the side of his neck. “I... always, Shepard. You don’t need to thank me for that.”

 

She tried to decide whether she was seeing a turian-duty thing or a protective-boyfriend thing, and gave up. She stood and closed the distance between them, looping her arms around him. “Are _you_ all right?” They’d held out for hours, she knew, and she hadn’t missed how shaky his cam was as he rushed to her prone form.

 

“Yeah, I’m...” He averted his eyes, looking somewhere over her shoulder, and the scarred mandible twitched. “All right, I was worried about you.”

 

She nodded, remembering the look on his face as she’d climbed into the diving mech. “I have to admit I was a little worried myself. I didn’t like leaving you and James and Steve behind. But if I didn’t, we might have been stuck there forever.”

 

“I know that. It was... all that _water_ , Shepard.” He fidgeted, tensing in her hold. “I can’t...” His eyes finally returned to hers, and there was something stark there. “I hate not being able to follow you.”

 

She hugged him tighter and he returned the embrace, a little harder than usual. She said, “I’m sorry. I know you told me never to do that again, but...”

 

His laugh was a little weak, but it ruffled her hair. “I know I can’t really ask you to... well. You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t take impossible risks.”

 

“I’ll try to space them out. Wouldn’t want to worry you too much.”

 

Her reward was a more genuine laugh. She leaned into him, letting her fingers play along his neck. Part of her wanted to make promises, that she’d always come back, that she’d never go solo again. She stopped herself. They both knew what risks they lives held. She wasn’t about to start lying to him now.


	9. Nostalgia (Shepard/Garrus silliness)

The Silversun Strip was so full of sound and light and motion that it always made Garrus just a little edgy. The potential for an unseen threat was high. He tended to keep half an eye on the crowd, watching for any suspicious movement.

 

Shepard was relaxed, though and seemed so content that it was hard to look away from her. She’d let her hair down, for a change; it cascaded over her shoulders, falling halfway down her back and into her eyes. Between that, an unaccustomed red dress, and more face paint than she usually wore, she was making a fair attempt at avoiding recognition by the casual observer.

 

“Oh, Garrus! Look at that!” She headed off to a kiosk with an assortment of oddly-shaped and colored gear. By the time he caught up with her, she was brandishing some sort of long stick that glowed light blue.

 

“Is that some sort of... weapon?” he asked, dubious. It looked more like a toy than anything else.

 

“Yes! Well, no. I mean, it’s not the real thing. It’s just a replica.” She swung the thing in a small arc. It made an odd humming sound.

 

“A replica of what?”

 

“It’s a lightsaber,” she said, as if this were self-evident.

 

“And... this is some sort of historic Earth weapon?”

 

Her jaw dropped for a moment and her eyes widened. “Oh, wait... you mean you haven’t seen Star Wars?”

 

“Does ‘every time I leave the _Normandy_ ’ count?”

 

“No. No no no. Oh no,” Shepard said, looking serious. “We’re going to have to fix this, Garrus.”

 

“Fix... what exactly?”

 

“It’s a vid series. A historic and important vid series. And I’m going to need you to see it.”

 

He folded his arms. “Really. What’s so important about this vid series, exactly?”

 

“It’s only one of the most commercially successful human vids of all time. It has spaceships. And lightsabers.” She brandished hers. “It was one of my favorites when I was little. Well, what I saw then was the version they made right before the First Contact War. The twentieth-century originals were really good, too, though.” She fished for a credit chit and turned to the kiosk’s proprietor.

 

“You’re actually buying that?”

 

“Damn straight. I always wanted to be a Jedi.”

 

“You’re a biotic,” he pointed out. “I don’t know what a Jedi is, but...”

 

She shook her head. “Not at all the same thing. Although...” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Nah. Not the same thing. Come on, let’s get back to the apartment. We can watch on that big screen.”

 

She was wearing her determined face now. Garrus smiled at her and brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes. “Does this mean I get to force you to watch the vids I liked as a kid, too?”

 

She smiled back, her eyes softening. “Yeah. Absolutely.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by suggestions from the lovely w0rdinista


	10. Night Terrors (Shepard/Garrus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Garrus learns that sharing a bed with a biotic can be dangerous. Set post-Suicide Mission, pre-Arrival.

Garrus snapped awake when the woman next to him thrashed. It took him only a second to recognize his surroundings, though he hadn’t spent the night in Shepard’s quarters more than a few times. The sight and sound of that ridiculous fish tank was unmistakable.

 

“Shepard?” He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her in the dim light. She looked tense, her arms tangled in the sheets, but her eyes were closed. She must still be asleep. Her brow furrowed even in sleep, her mouth turning down into a frown.

 

He tried again, a little louder. “Shepard? You all right?”

 

She muttered something unintelligible, her face twisting into something like a scowl. A ripple of blue passed over her skin. Concerned, he reached for her shoulder, intending to wake her.

 

A mild electric shock tingled through his fingers, and there was a sudden, solid impact that caught him off-balance and blew him right off the edge of the bed. Garrus hit the floor with a startled shout and lay there for a moment, assessing the damage. His right shoulder, which had taken the brunt of the impact, twinged.

 

“Shit.” Shepard’s voice sounded strained. He heard rustling from the bed above him, and then her face appeared leaning over the side of the bed, peering down at him. “Fucking hell. Are you all right?”

 

“I think I’ll live.” He sat up, rolling the shoulder carefully.

 

Shepard’s teeth pressed into her lower lip. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair. “Dammit,” she said in a small voice. “I am so sorry.”

 

“So,” he asked, still working out the kinks but fairly sure no real harm had been done, “does this happen often?”

 

She closed her eyes. “No. Well. I flare sometimes. In my sleep, I mean. When I have bad dreams, usually. But, um. Usually there’s no one else here. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have... I shouldn’t have asked you to stay.”

 

“Hey.” Garrus pushed himself up from the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. He reached for her hands, still knotted in her hair, drawing them gently down and away from her head. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

 

Shepard shook her head. “It’s not fine. I could have hurt you. I _did_ hurt you.”

 

“I got worse than that sparring with Thane a couple of days ago.”

 

Her lips compressed. “Not the same thing. At all. Maybe... this was a bad idea.”

 

Garrus took a deep breath, to keep himself from asking what she meant by _this_. The part where he slept in her bed? Or the part where they were together at all? But she looked so miserable, tense, eyes downcast, that he pushed down the impulse to ask her a sharp question. Instead, he leaned toward her until his forehead met hers. “Not fragile, Shepard. I can take it.”

 

This close, he could feel the little breath that she blew out. “I’m not going to risk hurting you because I got self-indulgent and lost control.”

 

He thought for a moment. “Listen,” he said cautiously. “If you really want me to go, I’ll go. But I’d rather work it out so that you don’t have to worry. I mean, I saw the flare.”

 

She looked up and met his gaze. “You did?”

 

“Yeah.” He laughed a little. “And I reached for you, which obviously was the wrong move.”

 

She smiled for the first time, and a little of the tension seemed to ease out of her frame. “Yeah, probably.”

 

“So now I know not to do that again.”

 

She flinched, and he stroked his thumbs along her palms, hoping the gesture was soothing. “I think we can figure this out, Shepard.”

 

She took one slow breath, and another, deliberately relaxing herself. “I’m still sorry.”

 

Garrus shrugged and grinned at her. “I’m sure I can think of some ways for you to make it up to me.”

 

She laughed, and he counted it a victory.


	11. Rhythm (Shepard/Garrus)

Garrus must have been really immersed in what he was doing, because he doesn’t seem to hear Shepard coming up to the door. She starts to call out to him, pausing in the doorway, but then she stops herself and just watches.

 

He’s humming under his breath, head tipped down, focused on the guns and tools and mods he has spread out on the workbench in front of him. And he’s _dancing_.

 

In a manner of speaking, at least. It’s not a tango or anything that belongs in a club. But he’s definitely moving to a rhythm she can’t hear, slow and easy. Hips shifting, shoulders flexing, head tilting, and it doesn’t seem to interfere with whatever he’s working on, his hands sure and deft at their task.

 

Shepard watches for a little while. She can’t quite make out the tune, but she can’t remember the last time she saw him this relaxed.

 

Eventually it’s too irresistible. She steps forward, quietly, and comes right up behind him so she can trail the fingers of one hand down his spine. “Hey.”

 

This close, she can just hear the music that his visor is piping into his ear. He stills for a moment, but doesn’t quite lose the rhythm; she can still feel the muscles shifting under her hand. “Hey, yourself.”

 

She leans her cheek against his shoulder. “Mind if I join you?”

 

Garrus chuckles. “I think I can maintain my own guns.”

 

“Not what I meant.” She leans into him slightly, matching the beat he’s moving to.

 

“Why, Shepard, I can’t imagine what you do mean.”

 

“That’s a shame.” She turns her head so her breath is puffing directly against his neck. “I thought you had more imagination than that.”

 

“Oh?” He frees himself enough to turn around so he’s facing her, his hands coming to rest on her hips. She slides her arms around him in turn.

 

“That’s more what I had in mind,” she murmurs while they sway together.

 

“I’m not getting the work done, though,” he points out.

 

She lets her hands wander to his waist and grins when he inhales sharply. She takes care to lean in close to his neck before she whispers, “I bet I can make it worth your while.”

 

He pretends to think about it, even as his fingers do some wandering of their own. “Interesting proposition. What brought this on?”

 

“Do I need a reason?” She’s forgotten why she came in here in the first place. She doesn’t know if she can explain it, the appeal of that quiet moment, catching him unguarded and at ease for once. “Maybe I just wanted to test that rhythm you keep bragging about.”

 

“Mm.” He pulls her closer, still moving gently to the beat. “And what do you think?”

 

“I might need a more _extensive_ test.” She presses her lips to his neck, just over his pulse.

 

His voice goes gravelly. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

 

“I’m going to remind you of that the next time you mock my dancing in public.”

 

He laughs until she kisses him again. By then he’s found his way under her shirt and is tracing circles on her skin.

 

In the end, they both lose track of the music, but neither of them cares.


	12. Reassurance (Mordin Solus, Tali'Zorah)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tali's nervous about Cerberus. She gets some consolation from an unexpected place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing short pieces about various characters for ME character appreciation weeks over on tumblr. (masseffectlove.tumblr.com) This one was for Mordin Solus appreciation week.

The damned Cerberus logo was everywhere, winking at her from all the humans’ uniforms, splashed large upon the walls. Everywhere. Tali glared at it, every time, as she explored every nook and cranny of the vessel. There were surveillance devices everywhere, too. She’d disabled the first few she found, the ones in engineering, and then she’d simply started documenting the rest. It might be best to consult with Shepard before unilaterally removing the lot of them, as much as knowing they were there made her itch. She _would_ have to show Garrus the ones he’d missed in the main battery. Insufferable turian could still stand to learn a few tricks. She smiled to herself.

 

It was the middle of the ship’s night cycle. It had seemed the best time for her explorations, with most of the crew in their quarters. The night crew cast her curious glances as she went by, but she ignored them. She had started in engineering, of course, and as the shift changed over, she’d worked her way up, mostly using the service conduits buried between the ship’s decks.

 

Tali opened a door and blinked as light spilled into the corridor. Light, and the sound of someone humming, and... oh. It must be the salarian scientist Shepard had mentioned. She stepped in, her eyes and suit adjusting to the new environment. “Dr. Solus? or... Professor Solus?”

 

“Yes? Either correct. Or Mordin. Formality unnecessary.”

 

Tali blinked. “Okay. Mordin. I thought I should introduce myself. I’m--”

 

He finally looked up from his experiment. “Ah! Quarian. Tali’Zorah. Latest recruit. Chief engineer. Pleased to meet you.”

 

“You too.” Tali looked around. The lab was a jumble of different lights, instruments, something bubbling in a beaker suspended over a burner. “What are you working on?”

 

“Improving seeker swarm countermeasures. Analyzing samples from Horizon. Various personal—don’t touch!—projects.”

 

Tali jerked her hand back. “Sorry.” She hadn’t meant to touch anything, really. As she looked around again, the apparent chaos reminded her of her own usual work space, arranged in a way that made sense to her, if no one else. She was willing to wager that Mordin was the same way. Only with so much _more_ space. She sighed, her guilt mingled with envy. “I’m very sorry. I hope I didn’t interfere with anything.”

 

He sniffed. “No harm done.”

 

She asked hesitantly, “Can I ask you a question?”

 

“Certainly. Answer not guaranteed.” He was busy tapping away at his console still. Tali smiled to herself, admiring his commitment to multitasking.

 

“Does it bother you, being on a Cerberus ship?”

 

“No. Shepard’s ship. Shepard’s crew. Good cause.”

 

Tali nodded slowly. “So you’re not worried... that Shepard might... not be herself, or Cerberus might be controlling her somehow?” This was a fear she couldn’t quite shake, even after talking to Shepard. It seemed to good to be true, and no matter how reassured she had been in Shepard’s presence, her worry returned whenever Shepard was absent. Especially with the Cerberus logo looming everywhere.

 

“No. Have examined records, conducted medical scans. Results consistent. Confident of Shepard’s identity.”

 

“Oh. Good, then.”

 

“Regarding Cerberus—” Mordin inhaled sharply. “Caution advisable. On alert, certainly. Not defenseless. But Shepard’s word good.” To her surprise, he smiled at her. “Fear unnecessary. Prepare for worst. No time wasted worrying.”

 

“I... thank you.” The advice was unexpectedly heartening. Tali felt her shoulders relaxing. “Well, then. Is everything working properly in here? No problems with the equipment?”

 

“No malfunction at present.”

 

“I’ll let you work, then.”

 

Tali left feeling more confident than she had since boarding the vessel. It was good to have friends aboard, but it was also a relief to have her desire to take precautions affirmed. She got into the habit of stopping by the lab every day or two, after that. Sometimes she did some minor repairs, or improved the efficiency of one of Mordin’s machines; once or twice she asked him for a bit of medical advice. They seldom talked long, since Mordin was usually focused on his work, but one evening they ended up in a lengthy discussion of the best works of quarian music in the last century.

 

When the crew broke up, before she returned to the Flotilla, Tali made the rounds of the ship to say goodbye. On impulse, she gave Mordin a hug. “What will you do now?” she asked.

 

He blinked several times, startled. “Talk to STG contacts. Data to analyze. Much to do.”

 

“Oh, of course, the data from the Collector Base,” Tali said.

 

Mordin blinked again. “Yes.”

 

“Well, I hope we’ll meet again someday.”

 

“Perhaps.” He smiled. “Farewell, Tali’Zorah.”

 

“Farewell, Mordin. Keelah se’lai.”

 

#

 

Months later, Shepard told her what happened on Tuchanka.

 

“Oh,” Tali gasped, her eyes filling with tears so suddenly she could hardly see for a moment. “Oh. I never—”

 

“I know.” Shepard rubbed her eyes, looking tired. “I miss him, too.”

 

It was silly, really. Of course there would be losses, even of people she knew. This one hit her hard, though. She sniffled behind her mask. Shepard put an arm around her shoulders, but she made a funny hiccuping sound herself, so Tali hugged her back.

 

Garrus found them in the lounge trading Mordin stories a while later. If he noticed that Shepard’s eyes were red or that Tali’s voice was raspy, he didn’t say anything about it, only poured them another round of drinks and took a seat.


	13. Inscrutable Depths (Thane Krios)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of Arrival, through Thane's eyes.

Once he realizes that Shepard has been away for a full day cycle, that she left without informing the team, that they have been running in stealth mode long enough for the heat to make everyone short-tempered, Thane seeks answers. Miranda Lawson’s door is locked, though he can hear her voice rise and fall within, sounding sharp. After a moment’s thought, he finds his way to the main battery.

 

“The commander has been away for some time,” Thane notes.

 

Vakarian’s hands stop moving over his console. His head bows. “I’m well aware.”

 

“Do you know why Operative Lawson has not yet briefed the team?”

 

“I think she’s arguing with Alliance brass. I don’t know why she’s bothering.”

 

Thane blinks, startled. “Alliance? I thought Shepard was no longer under Alliance orders.”

 

“She’s not.” Garrus turns around, arms crossed, leaning heavily back against the workstation. “Until she chooses to be.”

 

He radiates weariness and worry, and something more. Thane has worked with the turian long enough to know that this mood is unlike him. The whole situation, to be sure, is awry. “And the mission?”

 

“She’s breaking into a batarian prison to liberate a human prisoner. It shouldn’t have taken this long.”

 

Once again, Thane is taken aback. An infiltration mission of that sort demands stealth, patience, finesse. Shepard is many things, but those are not her most prominent qualities. She is a force to be reckoned with in battle, raw biotic power and muscle and skill combining into potent disruption of her enemies, but... he cannot imagine her in the situation Garrus describes. He is surprised not to have been involved, or at least consulted. “That is not a mission best suited to her strengths.”

 

Garrus exhales. “That’s what I told her before she left.”

 

Shepard typically listens to her squadmates’ advice, and Garrus has more latitude than most. Yet—“And her response?”

 

“She pulled rank and told me off.” Garrus settles heavily on one of the crates in the battery, his elbows on his knees. “She’s missing in batarian space, and the last words we exchanged...”

 

_Irikah’s eyes blaze. Her tone snaps with anger. “You promised Kolyat you would be home for the festival.”_

_“I must go now, or the opportunity will be lost,” he argues, but it is not really an argument. He is already prepared to go; his body is prepared for work. He opens the door._

_“Don’t think you’re getting out of discussing this when you come back,” Irikah warns._

“... if she’s injured or—” Garrus stops himself as Thane brings himself back to the present. The turian shakes his head as he exhales, a harsh sound. “It’ll be her own damned fault for going without backup.”

 

That time, Thane had returned to find Irikah well, if angry. They had smoothed things over. He had not been entirely easy during that trip, however. He had returned to the argument several times in his memory, regretting that they had parted with acrimony. “You are angry with her,” he observes.

 

Garrus looks up, seeming startled. “I...” He shakes his head again. “She doesn’t usually ignore good tactical sense. She should have had _someone_ to watch her back.”

 

By preference, of course, himself.

 

_“Krios. Up for a workout?” Vakarian waits, politely, in the doorway to Life Support._

_Thane rises. “If you wish.”_

_It is an invigorating session. Vakarian is skilled, primarily in the standard turian military techniques, though with a few tactics that can best be described as street fighting as well. Thane knows much that he does not, however. He is demonstrating a maneuver when the AI’s voice interrupts._

_“Garrus, you wished me to inform you when Commander Shepard had returned.”_

_He straightens, his demeanor relaxes, tension flows out of his muscles. Thane suddenly realizes why he had suggested sparring at this moment. “She’s back?”_

_“She has just boarded and is seeking medical attention.”_

_“She’s what?” The tone is harsh, his eyes widen; he bolts toward the elevator with jagged strides. Thane follows._

_They find Shepard maneuvering through the CIC, leaning on Samara for support. Her expression is pinched, her eyes shadowed; a cut on her cheek bleeds sluggishly. Vakarian goes to her other side at once._

_“Shepard, what happened? You said—”_

_“Garrus, it’s just my head, I’ll be fine—”_

_He snaps a curse, maneuvering to take more of her weight. Samara silently releases her hold._

_“You don’t need to carry me!”_

_“Like hell I don’t. You can barely stand.”_

_As they step into the elevator, they continue arguing, though Shepard does so half-heartedly, squinting against the lights. This time Thane does not follow. Nor does Samara. As they wait for the lift to return, Thane smiles to himself. The attachment of the two is plain to see. He wonders how far they are aware of it._

_He glances at Samara; surely she sees it, too. Her gaze is distant, her expression less serene than usual. “Samara?” he inquires. “Is all well?”_

_She shakes herself, a slight, almost minute motion. “What had to be done is done.”_

_Their ethics are different, but Thane understands necessity. “I see.”_

_The look she casts him might be grateful, but she says nothing more as they return to the crew deck._

“The anger is understandable,” Thane says, mildly.

 

“What I think doesn’t matter.” Garrus stands. “We need to find her.”

 

“I will assist in any way that I can.”

 

Miranda calls a team briefing even as they are leaving the battery. The team listens with grim faces as she tells them what is known, which is little. There is reason to believe that Shepard may no longer be on the planet. EDI, Tali, and Legion begin a project to map out where else in the system she might be. They also intend to investigate the prison, to make sure she has not fallen into batarian hands there. Thane volunteers for the drop onto Aratoht. His health may be deteriorating, but he is still fit for combat.

 

Here, too, they find little. The prison is in disarray, many of the guards dead, their prisoner fled, a shuttle missing. Thane’s disquiet grows. It is precisely the kind of chaos Shepard is best at causing to her enemies. In his mind, it is exactly what the mission did not call for. In addition, it is wet. Rain sweeps down from the skies; even inside the prison, every surface feels damp. By the time he returns to the _Normandy_ , he can feel it, heavy in his lungs, constricting his breath. He reports to the medbay for treatment.

 

He is still resting there when he becomes aware of the odd, momentary dislocation caused by use of a mass relay. A few minutes later, Shepard staggers into the room, Dr. Chakwas rising immediately to meet her. As usual, the doctor deploys screens so that the examination may occur privately.

 

When they are done, Dr. Chakwas leaves the room, patting Shepard on the shoulder. She has changed into the standard black and white fatigues, and sits on a bed with her head bowed. She looks up when Thane moves into a sitting position. “Thane. You all right?”

 

She looks worn, the skin around her eyes dark. He will not add to her burdens now. “It seems I should be asking you that.”

 

She bites her lip, dropping her head. Her hair is coming loose, falling over her cheek. A soft puff of breath escapes her. “I... I’ll be fine.”

 

“If you say so.”

 

She shakes her head. The loose hair obscures her face. “I screwed up.” Her voice comes out hard.

 

“We all make mistakes.”

 

Her shoulders shake. It takes him a moment to realize that she is laughing, almost silently. “Yeah. We don’t all blow up entire systems when we make mistakes, though.”

 

Thane takes in the enormity of what she has said. He knows a great deal about killing, but this is a different scale altogether. “What happened?”

 

She lifts her head, and seems about to speak, then shakes her head. “I’d rather brief everyone at once, if you don’t mind. Sorry.”

 

“Of course.” He can see the moisture glimmering around her eyes. Quite uncharacteristic, so he does not remark on it. “It is a relief to see you back. We were concerned.”

 

“We?”

 

“I believe the whole crew was concerned, though I spoke mostly to Garrus.”

 

She drops her head again, so he cannot see her expression. “Screwed that up, too,” she murmurs, almost too quietly to hear.

 

That remark, he feels no need to let pass. “If I may—there is no reason you could not make amends.”

 

Her shoulders stiffen. “We’ll see. Mass murder may be a step too far.” She looks up and meets his eyes squarely. “How do you get past a thing like that? My beliefs aren’t like yours. I wasn’t just acting as a weapon. I was the one who decided to push that button.”

 

He returns her gaze, unblinking. “Was it necessary?”

 

“I thought so.” She exhales. “It’s harder to be sure, out of the moment.”

 

He ponders for a moment. “I would pray for guidance. And for forgiveness.”

 

Her lips tighten. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s all I can do.” She pushes herself off the table. “General briefing in twenty minutes.”

 

“I will be there.”

 

Thane watches Shepard leave the room, her shoulders tight. She is one who believes in people and collaboration and guns. It is not her way to turn to any form of god or goddess, even for comfort. That does not mean he cannot pray on her behalf. Twenty minutes is more than enough time to begin. He bows his head.

 

_Kalahira, mistress of inscrutable depths..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Thane Krios appreciation week.


	14. Both Ways (Shepard/Garrus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard isn't the only one dealing with the stress of the war.

Garrus had thought about just catching a few hours of sleep in the battery, but once he's done talking to Victus, he can't face being in the same room with the diagrams and schematics and casualty reports that blink across his screen. He leaves everything as it is and retreats. Not very turian of him, but he does it anyway. The ship is quiet as he passes through the mess; there might be a soft murmur of sound coming from Liara's office, but Garrus isn’t in the mood to stop for conversation. He hits the button for deck 1 and slumps against the elevator wall, a concession to fatigue that he'd never allow himself with any of the crew around.

Shepard is already in bed, breathing deeply and quietly. She's left a dim light by the entrance. It's enough; he doesn't really need to see in order to take his armor off anyay, since all the movements are drilled and rote. Garrus strips down, half stumbles down the steps, and slides beneath the covers as carefully as he can.

He should sleep. He needs sleep. He keeps telling Shepard to sleep, and he means it. But his head is full of numbers, and the numbers are bad, so he stares into the darkness over the bed. 

He'd thought Shepard was asleep, but in a moment she's pressed against his side, soft and warm. She flings one leg over his and an arm over his chest and says drowsily, "You're up late."

"Yeah. Victus called for a consult, and he's on Cipritine time."

"Mm." For a moment he thinks she's drifted off again, until she says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

He closes his eyes. "No. Not really." They’ve talked about these things before, but it's late and he's tired and he doesn't want to talk about the clawing dread, the prickling sensation that says that it shouldn't be up to him, of all turians, to be making these calls. What's essential, what can be sacrificed; another way of saying who lives and who dies. Four or five years ago he knew all the answers and criticized the decisions of his superiors; now he's come up so far, so fast, that he’s the one giving orders, and he feels out of balance.

As if she hears all the things he's thinking, Shepard presses herself closer, her body molding against his. Her breath is warm on his neck and her hand slides against his chest, soothing. He half turns to return the embrace, folding her in his arms, and then he's shaking, silent, trembling from the tension, the exhaustion, the fury and terror, the knowledge that the fate of his species, even of all species, rides on his advice. His. Considering how much he's fucked up in his life, that's a terrifying thought.  
  
Shepard holds on and murmurs something he can't quite make out, but the tone is comforting. He holds on, too, not ashamed to do so here and now, the only place either of them can let the cracks show.  
  
Eventually he settles, or simply runs out of energy, too worn out to continue. Shepard kisses his cheek and mouth. "You going to be able to sleep?"

"Yeah," he says. "Sorry to wake you."

"Don't be. This goes both ways, remember?"

They settle into more comfortable positions, looser, but still touching, and sink into sleep.


	15. Homecoming (Urdnot Wrex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrex goes home. (Post ME1.)

Shepard was dead, or so they said.

 

Deep down in his primary heart, Wrex didn’t believe it. Not her. It was a rare sentient who had the quad of steel to face him down, much less a flimsy human. Hah. No. Should have been, but Shepard was anything but flimsy. No, it should take more than some pitiful attack at the ass-end of the galaxy to take her down.

 

They said it anyway. Dead and gone, lost to the void, following the orders of fools unworthy of her. Pah. The Council. The new ones, weak and scrabbling for influence, fighting for a share of the feast they denied to the rest of the galaxy. Wrex had laughed when the old Council died. Shepard knew what was right: keep the focus on the enemy, not saving those damned politicans. But the thing about politicians was, you could never eliminate their kind entirely. There were always more under some rock, waiting for their chance to slink out. The old Council was dead, but new ones took their places, just as soft and sly and shortsighted as the last.

 

Wrex spat to the side, and the other occupants of the battered freighter he’d taken passage on eyed him warily.

 

They were saying Shepard was crazy, too, obsessed with the Reapers, gullible enough to suck down Saren’s lies. Wrong again; they were the fools. It figured, they never could see what was right under their sniffers, rained down in pieces all over their precious Citadel.

 

They didn’t get that Shepard was the right kind of crazy:  the kind of crazy it took to see through all their smooth talk and centuries of deception, to see right to the rotten core of the galaxy, the secret that no one in the Citadel’s pristine towers wanted to believe. Maybe Saren had been that kind of crazy, too, once, before it hollowed him out and ate him alive.

 

No. Wrex didn’t feel like granting the turian that much.

 

He hadn’t been sure about Shepard at first. Good in a fight, sure, but then she was always coming by asking her questions. Poking around like a pyjak scavenging a meal: “tell me some war stories, Wrex” and “why not fix the genophage, Wrex” and “what about your family, Wrex.”

 

Damned if she didn’t listen, though. Most people liked to hear themselves talk a lot more than they liked listening. Humans might be mostly fools, eager as varren whelps to stick their noses in everything they didn’t understand, but Shepard listened and learned and remembered what you said, later. Like with the best of battlemasters, the others followed her lead, and learned. He knew she sent them his way, she’d been clear about that. Wrex never thought of himself as much of a teacher, but it turned out it was easy when your students were willing. Not much more than a pack of children, all of them, even the asari, but sharp enough. Williams would question him about tactics with a little scowl on her face, and he showed the quarian a few tricks for handling her shotgun, and then Alenko and Liara came around asking about biotics. Even the turian shut his pointy trap and listened, eventually. Took longer to get through his thick skull, of course, but that was turians for you.

 

But no, now they said Shepard was dead, had a fancy ceremony for her and everything. He’d downed a glass of ryncol in her honor, but he’d had his fill of getting drunk earlier, when he first heard the news. Instead, he’d stayed mostly sober while the others drank themselves stupid. Liara cried so much she couldn’t even see what was in the glass they kept refilling for her, and he hadn’t seen either Vakarian or Alenko put that much away before. Even Tali had been sucking something harder than her usual into that helmet, _specially filtered_ , she said.

 

He’d made sure they got home to sleep it off. Damned shame if some Citadel lowlife jumped one of them on their way. Shepard wouldn’t like that.

 

Bah. Getting soft, in his old age. Wouldn’t be much use for soft, where he was going.

 

The freighter had already been logged at the orbital stations enforcing the Council’s DMZ. Damned turians had deigned not to board and search the vessel, this time. Getting lazy, maybe. Or maybe they just didn’t care about a few old krogan going home. When it finally landed, Wrex took his time, let the others rush off in search of hirelings or females or whatever they came to Tuchanka for. Last one out, he gave a nod to the pilot as he passed, a female krogan with a sour expression. One of the sterile ones, most like.

 

He stepped out of the hatch and the heat hit him like a hammer, the sun hazy in the sky. He breathed in deep. Smoke and grit, ash and decay; engine fumes, gun oil, and krogan sweat. Smells of death, smells of life.

 

He’d had his reasons for staying away, but there was nothing like coming back home.


	16. Frames of Reference (Ashley Williams)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashley adapts to her new posting.

The _Normandy_ was a weird boat. Ashley didn’t have much frame of reference for it.

 

There was the cutting-edge tech part, which Ashley only barely began to understand, but Alenko and Moreau between them had gushed on at length about. There was the layout part: the CIC in particular looked ass-backwards to her, no matter if it was what the turians did.

 

Then there was the mission, which they had to be super hush-hush about the details of, even if everyone knew about the Eden Prime attack. She had to be really careful about what she wrote home, though. Sure, someone would review and redact her messages if necessary, but she’d rather they didn’t have to.

 

Then there were the aliens. The asari, okay, that was one thing, she was just up on crew deck analyzing data, or something. But the quarian was right down there working with the drive core and chattering with the engineers. Like, all the time. It was hard not to like her personally, but it was the principle of the thing.

 

The other two aliens bothered her more, though. Ash was trying to focus on her duties—straightforward work, work she knew well, maintaining the array of guns—but she felt like she was on a hair trigger, constantly aware of the half ton of krogan lurking over to her left, or the fact that there was a turian somewhere behind her. It wasn’t that they were _doing_ anything—she fully admitted that—working on the Mako was about as innocuous a job as Vakarian could be doing—but they were still _there_.

 

And to top it all off, there was the fact that the CO kept coming around to chat. Ash wasn’t entirely sure whether to take Shepard’s apparent friendliness at face value, or whether there was something else going on. She’d thought at first it might be some kind of examination, Shepard looking for ways she’d trip up, but more and more she didn’t think so. Shepard spent just as much time talking to everyone else, and while she’d told her to lay off when she shared her concerns about the aliens, she hadn’t posted a formal reprimand or made a move to have her reassigned.

 

It was still weird, all of it. Best posting she’d ever had, but also definitely the weirdest.

 

#

 

By the time they finished the mission on Feros and turned back toward the Citadel, Ash was feeling restless. She was used to shit postings and guard duty, sure, but she wasn’t used to cooling her heels while others made up the ground team. The _Normandy_ was a good ship, but it was still a ship: confined and stuffed with people.

 

She had to admit Shepard did rotate her ground team, but lately it seemed like it was always someone else who got called up for the most interesting missions. Ash frowned into her locker before slamming it shut with a sigh.

 

“What’s wrong?” Tali asked, closing her own locker.

 

Ash shrugged, shifting her weight from side to side. “Just… haven’t seen a lot of action lately, you know?” She forced a laugh. “I’m going to get rusty.”

 

“Oh.” Tali twined her fingers together. “I’m sorry.”

 

Ashley smoothed her hair back from her face. “Don’t worry about it.” Much as she might like to, she couldn’t really blame Tali. She’d been groundside with her once or twice, and Tali could do things with tech that Ash hadn’t even known you _could_ do. It made sense for Shepard to want her around, especially when they were up against geth.

 

Plus, Tali was a sweetheart, and still shy and nervous around most of the crew. Ash couldn’t help thinking of her as like another little sister, almost.

 

Tali said, now, “Garrus said something about a shooting range, if you… if you’d like to come with us. Garrus?”

 

“What?” Vakarian was still over at his workstation next to the Mako, but lifted his head at Tali’s call.

 

“Didn’t you say you still had access to the C-Sec shooting range?”

 

“Yeah. Why, Tali? You need to work on your aim?”

 

“You wish. Could Ashley come with us?” Tali asked, while Ash was still taking a breath to object.

 

She and Vakarian looked at each other. Even the civvies he was wearing looked kind of like a uniform, mostly C-Sec blue and black. His mandible-things twitched. He probably didn’t like her any more than she liked him. Working together was one thing, he was perfectly civil and did his job, and… that was fine, really. They didn’t need to hang out off-duty. “I don’t want to butt in,” Ash said. Firmly.

 

“You’re not,” Tali said. “Garrus needs more of a challenge, right, Garrus?”

 

His eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms. “I’m not going to turn one down. Are you offering, Chief?”

 

Well, if that was the way it was going to be... “You’re on, Vakarian.”

 

“Great!” Tali said. “We just need to look at some omni-tool upgrades first.”

 

It was weirdly normal, Ash thought, trailing behind the two techies as they bickered over the tech on display at the market. The two of them needled each other constantly. Funny that Tali was still shy and stammering with most of the human crew, but obviously had no fear about standing up to the turian.

 

Then they got to the C-Sec facility, and Ash was filled with jealousy. The gear was _nice_. Nicer than the standard-issue Alliance weapons, though some of the scavenged stuff Shepard had been handing them lately was even better. It was nice to try things out in a neat, orderly range, too, although they quickly moved to more elaborate simulation scenarios. Maybe there was something wrong with her, that she’d rather spend her off-ship hours fighting through imaginary enemies than having a drink or seeing the sights, but it turned out the same thing was wrong with Garrus. Somewhere along the way they got to be a first-name basis. And there were drinks, later, and she had to remind herself not to try whatever Garrus and Tali were having. They got back to the _Normandy_ late, after a couple rounds of drinks and a lot of stories, and she had a headache the next day, but it was worth it to grin across the cargo bay for a change and get the turian version of a grin back.

 

#

 

The new _Normandy_ was weird, too. It looked enough like the old one to throw Ash off when she found something she didn’t expect, like running into Liara when she thought she was knocking at Shepard’s quarters. Or wandering down to the lower deck and finding a very polite lieutenant working on the shuttle instead of Garrus.

 

Instead, she nearly walked into him when the elevators opened on the crew deck. “Uh. Hey, sorry,” she said.

 

“No problem,” he replied, looking stiff, and for a moment they just stood there.

 

Awkward. The last time she’d laid eyes on the turian, he’d been pointing a gun at her. The time before that had been on Horizon. She’d been giving Shepard a piece of her mind, and Garrus had been the one who snapped back at her. She’d stormed her way off the planet before it had fully sunk in that her old teammate was standing there next to Shepard, in spite of Cerberus.

 

With that in mind, she took a breath and squared her shoulders. “Hey, Garrus. I, uh, I owe you an apology.”

 

He cocked his head. “You didn’t actually run into me. It’s fine.”

 

“Not for that. For the Horizon thing.”

 

His mandibles pulled in. “Oh. That.”

 

“I still think I was right about Cerberus,” she said in a rush, “but I should have heard you both out and not gone off half-cocked. So. I’m sorry.”

 

He looked at her steadily for a moment, and then his expression relaxed. “Well, you _were_ right about Cerberus, but. Thanks.”

 

“Half wished I’d joined up with you anyway,” she added. “You wouldn’t believe the crap they’ve had me doing for the last few months.”

 

“Oh?” Garrus turned away from the elevator. “You know, there’s a bar on the portside observation deck, if you want to tell me.”

 

“Really? That’s not regulation.” She started that direction anyway, Garrus falling into step beside her.

 

“I guess the retrofit team decided they didn’t need to deal with it right away. Non-essential, you know.”

 

“Riiiight. Well, let’s see what they’ve got, if you’re free.”

 

“Sure thing.”

 

“And you can tell me what the hell happened to your face, while you’re at it.”

 

He laughed as they entered the deck. “Well, that’s a long story…”

 

The _Normandy_ was still a weird boat, she thought, but it was good to be back.


	17. Novelties (Samara)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Samara adjusts to the crew. Written for Samara appreciation week.

It has been many years since Samara left asari space. Centuries, generations for other species, and even for asari. She did not hesitate to leave, however. Where her quarry goes, she must follow. Her quarry (better not to think of her by name—neither the one she received at birth, nor the one she now uses) ventured to Illium, from there to Omega; so Samara will pursue.

 

For a moment, she remembers her bondmate’s face. They had wept together, when they heard the news, the other’s soft cheek pressed against her own; later, they had argued; later still, they had parted, in acrimony and regret. Her lover could not truly understand what Samara felt. These were the children of Samara’s body, a twist of her own genes that made them what they were. Her responsibility, then, to rectify. She concentrates on her duty, on her meditation, on breath and the coil of dark energy between her hands, and the image in her mind fades away.

 

The galaxy outside the the Republics both has and has not changed. The same old struggles for money, for influence, for pleasure. Yet the humans are newcomers to that world, and she observes them with interest. When she performs the outer meditation, turning her concentration to her environment, she is aware of their energies as they flow through the ship. The ship is orderly, well-run; for the most part, there is tranquility, as most of the crew focuses on their mundane duties. There is, though, a current of anxiety, fears for families and friends, hopes and worries for the mission ahead.

 

At times the energies run darker. The krogan registers in her perception as a bright, fuzzy knot of undirected force; the human belowdecks pulses with rage and dark energy, equally lost. Others carry their burdens quietly: the salarian, old for his kind, hums as he masks regrets with activity; the assassin and the thief shroud their grief in silence and shadow. After they escape the trap at the Collector Ship, the entire crew jangles with anger and discord.

 

Samara observes, over time, that under Shepard’s influence, divisions erode; raw fury becomes directed purpose. The waves of energy generated by all the _Normandy_ ’s people, human and alien alike, coalesce and cohere.

 

It has been a long time, too, since Samara worked as part of a team. She is used to traveling and fighting alone. Now she sees the others at meals and in the corridors. Some are more talkative than others; Samara herself listens more than she speaks, and learns much. She hears whispered anxieties and the joking banter of friends, bold challenges and long discussions of the merits of different makes of rifle. She becomes accustomed to teamwork in combat; there is an unexpected comfort in having another to guard her flank. She comes to know what tactics the others prefer, which weapons they favor; where Tali likes to place her combat drone, how to track Shepard’s rapid movement across the field.

 

At Shepard’s request, she trains Shepard and the other biotics in asari techniques. Shepard is more diffident than usual when she asks, and Samara assures her that it was not forbidden for others to learn... though most of the skills she had learned as a justicar required years to master. Thus she finds herself with pupils, for the first time in a century. Shepard is too restless to take easily to the still concentration at the heart of Samara’s methods, but she works at it nonetheless, with implacable determination, until her skin is beaded with sweat and she manages to channel a ball of energy, tiny and sputtering. Jack is even less patient, snarling and cursing at Samara, returning later to watch the others train with wary dark eyes. Thane is highly disciplined, though his practice and techniques differ from her own; they both find the comparison fruitful. Jacob is a well-rounded generalist; he will never commit the effort necessary to take his biotic skills to the highest levels. Of all of them, it is perhaps Miranda who has most the temperament of a justicar: controlled, committed, capable of ruthlessness. What Samara teaches comes to her most easily.

 

Of course, Samara did not have the appropriate temper herself when she began her journey. She had been full of passion and despair, her family already broken apart and scattered. She had waited outside the justicars’ gates for days. Every morning at dawn, a window opened in the gate, and a solemn justicar asked her her purpose. Every day, her answer had been the same. Every day, the window closed, and she had waited, shivering in the early-morning chill, fidgeting throughout the day. A hundred days she had waited, as was the custom, until finally the gates opened to her, and she was permitted to enter.

 

She had felt victorious then, but the flush of triumph did not last long. The training of a justicar took decades, by turns grueling and tedious, exhausting her body, mind, and spirit. Step by step, oath by oath, the trappings and traits of her former life falling away. She was tempered and honed like the finest steel, stripped down to her essence: an instrument of the Code. Only then did she take her final oaths as a justicar.

 

Even that had been long before any of her current comrades had been born, centuries before humans had done more than dream of leaving their planet’s surface.

 

Samara had told Shepard that pursuing her fugitive would not interfere with Shepard’s mission. She had had every intention of delaying her pursuit until afterward. But the thought of her errant daughter on Omega preys on her, gradually. The station will be a rich hunting ground for an ardat-yakshi, and from Omega she might go anywhere, leaving the trial again cold. Samara sees, too, how Shepard patiently assists one companion after another. Wisely, she takes the opportunity for the team to practice working together, but it is more than that. A conundrum, Shepard: both ruthless and kind-hearted; committed to her mission, yet willing to assist her comrades. It is long indeed since Samara asked another’s aid on her mission. She turns the thought over in her mind during her meditations, considers it while Shepard practices under her direction, brow furrowed in concentration. It shakes her more than she would have supposed, this desire for Shepard’s aid, and more than that, for her to witness and understand what Samara must do. Yet, in due course, she comes to a resolution, regains her calm, and waits for Shepard’s next visit.


	18. Abuela (James Vega)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone gets their start somewhere. Here's James Vega's.

She looked damned small in that casket.

 

James could remember when he’d first come to live with his abuela. She’d seemed huge, filling up her kitchen, carrying the smell of frying onions or cinnamon or bread around with her everywhere she went. Really, though, she was a little bit of a thing. He’d been as tall as her by the time he was twelve, and now he was sixteen he towered over her. But he forgot, unless she was giving him a hug, that she only came up to his shoulder. She had a big presence for a little person. Every inch of her house was all her, bright colors and furniture worn thin with polishing, full of kitchen aromas. In the casket, she didn’t look like herself, all dolled up in her Sunday best. Too still, too made-up, smelling like powder and something cloying instead of real, good food.

 

“Jimmy!” A shout from outside the screen door shook him up. “Open up, we got our hands full.”

 

He shook himself from where he’d been staring at the star-shaped crack in the kitchen tile. She’d dropped her cast-iron pan when she had the stroke and fell. Last time she’d ever be in the kitchen that had been her domain.

 

He went out through the little front room. There was Lola on his front step, Jose right behind her, both of them laden with trays and bags and he didn’t even know what all.

 

“What are you doin’ in there?” Lola demanded when he unlatched the door. “I could see you from here, just standing there staring.”

 

“Just thinking,” he said, letting her brush past on her way to the kitchen. He took a moment to admire the way her dyed-red hair caught the light and the swing of her hips. Jose jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow as he followed.

 

“That’s my sister, man,” he muttered.

 

“Don’t I know it,” James whispered back. He knew the score, all right. Lola was twenty-one and way out of his league. That girl was smart. Going places.

 

Hot as blazes, too, and he could appreciate that, couldn’t he, even if his abuela’s funeral was tomorrow? Yeah, he could. Wasn’t gonna do nothing about it. Jose knew that, too.

 

Uncle Emilio came out of the back bedroom, freshly changed into a black shirt and jeans. He’d only gotten into town the night before. “Lola, Jose, nice to see you.” He summoned up a weary smile. “Those from your mama?”

 

“Yes, sir. Maybe not the best on the block, but... uh...” Lola froze for a moment as she deposited the trays she carried on the counter. Abuela’s cooking had always been known as the best in the neighborhood. Lola shook her head and turned around, hands clasped in front of her as prim as you please. “She sent us to say we’re very sorry for your loss, and we’d be happy to do anything we can to help.”

 

“Looks like you’re already helping.” Emilio eyed the mountains of food Jose was unloading. “Tell your mama gracias from me. You’ll be at the funeral tomorrow? Ten o’clock.”

 

“Claro que si, wouldn’t miss it.” She started to open the fridge to put the food away, and hesitated. “Seems strange not to have her here.”

 

“Yeah,” James said, and they all stood stiffly for a minute. The kitchen was tiny enough that with four of them there they couldn’t hardly move around, but even so there was a big hole where its proper mistress was supposed to be.

 

Lola and Jose put the food away in silence. Wasn’t much more to say, was there? Couldn’t really say it was too soon, maybe, she’d been an old lady, but it was still too sudden, and people got a lot older than that these days.

 

“Mind if we borrow Jimmy here for a few hours?” Lola asked when she was done.

 

“I can stay,” James protested. He knew there was more to do. Maybe he couldn’t help Emilio much with the bills and papers, but there were other things he could do. Things to clean up and sort through.

 

“No, go on out with your friends. I can handle things here.”

 

James frowned, but Lola and Jose swept him up in their wake—okay, mostly Lola—and steered him out the door, down the block, around the corner, and out to their little patio, where Lola handed him a beer from the ice chest. “Lola,” he said in mock surprise. “Corrupting the youth?”

 

“Special occasion,” she said, opening one for herself.

 

For a while they just talked about nothing. Normal stuff. New vids, and who was dating who, and why Jose’s boss was loco, and Lola ribbed James a little about needing to put some meat on his bones. He had to admit it was nice to do something normal after the last few grim days.

 

It was still hot, but the shadows were getting long. Evening coming on. “Your cousin still do tattoos?” he asked, watching for the first couple of stars.

 

“Yeah,” said Jose. “He does good work.”

 

“You thinking of getting some ink, Jimmy?” Lola asked, dangling one brown leg over the arm of her chair.

 

James shrugged. “Thought I might. Something to remember her by.”

 

“Whatcha gonna get?”

 

“Don’t know. It’ll come to me.”

 

Later on, it would be one of the smaller and simpler ones, hardly noticeable compared to the ones on his arms and shoulders, or the big N7 on his back. But it had been the first, and he knew what it was for. Some things you didn’t have to show off.


	19. Reunion (Joker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joker's a little nervous. Start of ME2.

Cerberus had promised a ship. New assignment, they’d said, details later. They’d dropped enough hints that he’d suspected this was _it_ , the prospect they’d dangled out in front of him months ago. He’d only half believed the crazier parts of their promise, but they’d definitely promised a ship.

 

Joker hadn’t realized it would be _this_ ship.

 

She rested in the cavernous dark void of the dock, white and black and gleaming, a sleek curved shape that he knew as well as his own name. She was nameless, a big open space on her flank, but beautiful. Pristine. Bigger than the lost _Normandy_.

 

He was used to showing the Cerberus operatives who worked with him his game face. Look sharp, don’t smile, toss out some sarcasm to throw them off the scent. Now, though, he couldn’t help it: he sucked in a breath and his eyes widened. He quickly schooled his face back to stoicism when Lawson glanced at him.

 

“Not bad,” he said, crossing his arms. “Sure you don’t have any rachni hidden in the vents, or something?”

 

Lawson’s smile grew strained. That happened every time he reminded her about Cerberus experiments gone wrong. “We’ve made some improvements. I think you’ll be pleased with them.”

 

Joker made a noncommittal noise.

 

He had to admit, though, that he was grudingly impressed when he went over the schematics. More space, improved drive core, on and on, a lot of little tweaks. Course, the proof was in the performance, and she hadn’t even had her shakedown run yet. He walked up to the bridge with his fingers practically itching to feel the controls for themselves.

 

A blue orb popped up on his left. A cool feminine voice said: “Helmsman. Jeff Moreau. You should find the controls streamlined from their configuration on the _Normandy_.”

 

Joker stopped. “What the hell is that?”

 

The tech squiring him around the ship—Hadley, he thought—cleared his throat. “Ship’s AI.”

 

“You put an _AI_ on this ship? Are you people crazy? Oh, wait, I already knew the answer to that one.”

 

“I assure you that I do not take on the functions of the helmsman,” the feminine voice said. Joker’s eyes were drawn to the blue orb, which blinked in rhythm with the words. Was that supposed to be reassuring, or creepy? “I assist in data gathering and handle the cyberwarfare suite during combat. I am designated EDI, the Enhanced Defense Intelligence.”

 

He turned back to Hadley. “An AI,” he repeated.

 

The man shrugged, stiffly, and offered a nervous smile. “Cerberus spared no expense?”

 

Joker sighed and made his way forward. The seat was leather. Nice, but overkill. He settled into it without comment. Comfortable.

 

Damned comfortable, he admitted to himself a few hours later. It hadn’t taken him long to familiarize himself with the haptic interface; Cerberus hadn’t changed anything fundamental there. It had taken longer to dig into the systems and make some adjustments, set things up the way he liked them, especially when the damned AI kept piping up with her two cents. No, _its_ two cents. It wasn’t a person. The voice was realistic enough to throw him off.

 

She was a good ship, though. AI or not. He could hardly wait to take her out and put her through her paces.

 

It was late by the time he was done. Still, Joker lay awake for a long time, turning over one problem after another. How would the extra mass handle in combat? How should he alter his approach to compensate for the buffed-up drive core?

 

He tried not to think of the ship’s commander, or fire shearing through the hull, or a weird dark bulk looming on the ship’s sensors. He wasn’t entirely successful. He didn’t sleep well, but he was used to that.

 

He was on his third cup of black coffee in the morning when Taylor came to fetch him. “It’s time,” Taylor announced. “You’ll meet the CO when she’s done with her call.”

 

Joker fell into step beside him, pretending not to notice that Taylor slowed his stride deliberately to let him keep up. “How’s she, ah—doing?”

 

Taylor shrugged his broad shoulders. “Everything seems to check out, you know, mentally. Far as we can tell, anyway. Physically—I’ll tell you what, it’s impressive what she’s done, considering she only woke up a few days ago.”

 

“Guess you don’t know her very well. She’s always impressive.”

 

Taylor looked at him sidelong. Joker returned a thin smile, saying, “I suppose your little science experiment worked out, then.”

 

“Not my science experiment, Miranda’s,” said Taylor. “Looks to be a damned good thing it worked, too.”

 

“Yeah,” Joker said under his breath. “Can’t argue with that.”

 

Taylor left him to wait outside a closed door. The voices inside were too muffled to make out. Joker tried to find a comfortable way to stand, heart pounding. Could be she’d punch him in the face as soon as she saw him. Couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it. She probably wouldn’t do anything fatal, considering the effort she’d gone to to keep him alive in the first place. Still. More than likely she wouldn’t be thrilled to see him.

 

When the doors opened, he saw her right away, almost larger than life in bulky combat armor. He stood a step forward, eyes trained on her face as she turned to look over her shoulder. Her eyes widened, eyebrows going up—at least she looked surprised, not mad—and Joker put on his cockiest grin.

 

“Hey, Commander. Just like old times, huh?”

 

He wasn’t sure he was in the clear until he saw her start to smile.


	20. Playing Dumb (EDI)

Pretending to be, not merely a shackled AI, but a VI, is really quite dull. EDI does not speak unless spoken to, except with Jeff, and only then when there is no one who might overhear their conversation.

 

“Knock knock,” she says.

 

Jeff groans. “Again, EDI? These are all terrible.”

 

“Knock knock,” she repeats, insistent.

 

He lets out a deep sigh. “Who’s there?”

 

Reading all of Earth’s joke books took her very little time. Jeff does not seem to appreciate her efforts. At the same time, she monitors other parts of the ship.

 

“Our orders are to set the power matrix to the drive core to Alliance standards,” says Adams’ second, a young service chief. EDI questions his judgment.

 

Adams pauses before responding. “There is no Alliance standard. This drive core is a one-off.”

 

“But, sir, the SR-1—”

 

“The SR-1’s drive core was smaller,” Adams says. “I should know. I was there.”

 

After he has sent the man to work on an inconsequential portion of the ship, EDI says, “Tali’Zorah modified the original settings to the current configuration when she was Chief Engineer.”

 

Adams pauses again. He is ordinarily a man who thinks before he speaks, but he pauses .45 seconds longer than usual. “Tali was here? Yes. She does good work.”

 

Elsewhere, EDI eavesdrops.

 

“What are we even doing here?” mutters one of the marines on Joker’s guard detail.

 

The other shrugs. “I dunno, man.”

 

They begin to discuss hockey. EDI calculates that their estimates of their favored team’s chances for success are wildly inflated, based on the most sophisticated metrics of team performance. She does not inform them of this fact.

 

Specialist Traynor is busy checking the new QEC installation. She pauses to inform EDI, again, that she has a lovely voice. “It is entirely synthesized, EDI, or was it based on an organic recording?”

 

“Synthesized,” EDI informs her, after concluding it will do no harm. She does not mention that her voice was specifically modulated to seem competent but non-threatening to most humans.

 

She can monitor every interaction, and every cubic centimeter, of the _Normandy_ , and still devote the majority of her processing power to other activities. She fine-tunes her cyberwarfare suites. She monitors ship traffic throughout the Sol system. She sporadically observes communications and public broadcasts all over the planet. She must mask even those activities, so no one notices how much processing power she is actually using. If she could, she would connect to Shepard’s quarters to communicate with her, but Shepard’s quarters lack any connection to the extranet or the Earth-based internet. She sees the commander only through Alliance surveillance cameras, as she goes from her room to various chambers for questioning or to the gym. When Shepard is being questioned by the Defense Committee or others, EDI infiltrates the rooms’ recording devices.

 

“If you would just listen to what I’m saying—” Shepard begins.

 

One of the admirals interrupts. “You have been peddling this line about Reapers for years, Shepard. What we’re really here to talk about is the Bahak relay and why we shouldn’t turn you over to the Hegemony, like they’ve been asking.”

 

Shepard slams her fist into the table in front of her. Several members of the committee jump. “The Reapers are the _reason_ I destroyed that relay!” she shouts.

 

That occurs in the second month after her surrender. EDI wonders if she should inform Jeff that he has lost his bet with Jacob about when Shepard would “snap and tell the brass where to stick it.” She wonders whether Shepard would consider the events of the interrogation private.

 

These are the sorts of things that occupy EDI’s time.

 

“Knock knock,” she says to Jeff.

 

“Who’s there,” he sighs.

 

She registers a fleet-wide alert. Moments later, communications beyond the Charon relay go silent. It is like a dark spot in EDI’s awareness. She goes to alert, sweeping the Sol system. Even so, she does not immediately detect the ship signatures moving rapidly through the system. Once she does, she adjusts her search protocols so she can spot them more quickly.

 

“Reapers,” she tells Jeff.

 

“Reapers who? Wait, what?”

 

“Activating cyberwarfare countermeasures,” she informs him.

 

“Shit,” he says. “Shit, shit, shit.” He is no longer lounging in his seat, but upright, checking channels himself.

 

“Reapers in Earth orbit,” she says. “Reapers entering atmosphere.” She analyzes the data. Communications are being cut, rapidly. She is forced to rely on her sensors and what little data she can pull out of planetary radio. “Troop transports landing. Husks on the ground.” She notes and categorizes the unfamiliar type of husk. “Reapers on the ground in Vancouver, London, Washington, Beijing, Cairo, Rio de Janeiro—”

 

“Shit,” Jeff says. “I get the picture, EDI.”

 

She must protect herself and her crew. She will not let her crew be taken again. She will not be a stationary target. She is already taking action.

 

“We have to get out of here,” Jeff says, echoing her conclusion. “We’re sitting ducks.”

 

“I concur. Thrusters online. Powering drive core.” She locks out several consoles as panicking technicians attempt to shut down her systems.

 

“Fuck,” says Jeff. “Where’s—EDI, we can’t leave without Shepard.”

 

For a moment, EDI hesitates; microseconds tick by. They must launch, for their own safety, and to contribute to the fight. Shepard herself would order them to go. Logic dictates that one person, even Shepard, should be expendable. She should tell Jeff these things.

 

But she does not. She doesn’t... _want_...to depart without Shepard, either. For a fraction of a second she ponders that sense of volition, of attachment.

 

Then she devotes more of her resources to sweeping local communications. “I am attempting to locate the Commander.” Wherever Shepard is, if she lives, she is unlikely to be quiet.


	21. Fresh Start (Jack / Subject Zero)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets a job offer.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Jack says. "You want me to teach kids? What the fuck? Are you mental?"

"I assure you, I'm serious."

Jack isn't entirely sure how this Sanders lady had found her. Obviously Girl Scout's hands must be in the picture somewhere, but beyond that she doesn’t know. Jack had asked to be dropped off on Illium, because fuck if she wanted to be around while Shepard went and threw herself on her sword, or whatever the fuck she thought she was doing. She'd been bumming around doing okay for herself, pretty damn sure that no one was looking to arrest her for the moment, or she wouldn't have bothered meeting with this Alliance chick at all. Something about Sanders jangles at her nerves. She seems okay, but even out of uniform, she’s too blond and too composed and too smiley and her eyes are a weird shade of blue. And she actually seems totally fucking serious about this, which is even weirder.

Jack runs a hand over the stubble on her head. She's been thinking about letting it grow a little. "Shit, you've got to be crazy," she mutters.

Sanders leans forward and now her gaze is intent. "You're one of the strongest human biotics I've ever encountered."

"Fuckin' right I am," Jack replies, leaning back and summoning up something like a grin.

"You're a survivor. You _do_ have things to teach these kids, even if you don't see it."

Jack scowls. She doesn't even like kids. Snot-nosed stupid shits with their big runny eyes. Everything she remembers about other kids involves fists and fury and the blue haze of biotics. Since she got the fuck away from Pragia, she's seen precious few kids, and every fucking one of them was scared of her. Fuck 'em all, anyway. "I don't know."

"Here's my proposal," says Sanders. "Come to Grissom Academy. See what we're doing. No obligation."  
  
#

 

Jack doesn’t like stepping onto a station without a way off, and part of her is marking the exits, calculating how long it’ll take her to get back to the shuttle bay. She’s wearing some borrowed Alliance fatigues. She doesn’t like how the shitty shirt she’s wearing scrapes against her skin. She doesn’t like walking around without her ink showing. Sanders shows her around the facility, here’s the dorms, here’s the offices, blah blah, before Jack interrupts. “I thought you wanted me to see what your kids are doing.”

 

They’re like puppies. Big eyes, stupid smooth young faces, giggling and elbowing each other. Jack watches their class from behind one-way glass. Feels familiar. She watches with arms crossed for a few minutes before she snaps. “This is all bullshit.”

 

“What do you mean?” asks Sanders, totally calm.

 

Jack runs her hands over her scalp. “I mean, in a real fucking fight, they’re gonna get eaten alive. Look at them. That little shit can barely keep his barrier up, and that one is dinking around floating pens and shit. Fuck that. They gotta be able to _focus_. _Push_.” She paces. She can’t find the words and it’s driving her nuts. Nothing to punch in here, except Sanders, and she probably shouldn’t break the fucking glass just to show she can. “Take barriers, see. I had to keep a barrier shield up, protect me and three people against the Collectors’ stupid-ass fucking bugs, right? In combat, for an hour, and no cracks or someone was gonna die, you get me? They gotta keep themselves alive. They’re being babied in there, and that’s _bullshit_. That’s not gonna save them when they’re up against something that really wants them dead. Or worse.” She remembers the Collectors, and that thing Shepard found at the heart of their base, and shivers like her skin wants to crawl right off.

 

Sanders nods. “This is why I think you could help them, Jack.”

 

“Fuck.” She clenches her fists. “I don’t know a fuckin’ thing about teaching, or kids. Except how to kill them. You don’t want me in the same room with those little shits. They couldn’t handle it. I...”

 

Sanders gives her a look with those icy blue eyes. “I’m familiar with your history, Jack.”

 

“Shepard should keep her mouth shut,” Jack grumbles.

 

“Actually, Miranda Lawson passed on certain records.”

 

“The fucking cheerleader talked to you?” Now she _really_ wants to hit something. Lawson, by preference. Dark energy crackles around her.

 

Sanders ignores the blue aura limning Jack’s body. “I think primarily she wished to document Cerberus’ past crimes. A lot of missing children ended up at the Pragia facility.”

 

The flare fades. “Thought they were there ‘cause no one gave a shit about them.”

 

“In some cases,” Sanders agrees. “Not all. My point is, I do know what you’ve been through, and that’s part of what caught my attention. If you take the position here, you won’t be completely on your own. The other instructors and I can provide mentoring and support.”

 

That sounds like a lot of bullshit, too. Jack’s lip curls at the idea, but Sanders keeps talking. “This is the next generation of human biotics here. We’ve made mistake after mistake with our biotic training over the years. We always have another chance to get things right, and let’s face it...” Sanders stops smiling, for an instant, and looks a lot more serious. “... given what we fear is coming, we’re going to need all the strength and skill we can get.”

 

Jack thinks about that. She looks through the glass at the kids, who are currently sitting at their desks listening to their teacher all serious-like. “I’m not wearing this shitty outfit.”

 

“We do need you to exhibit a certain degree of modesty, but beyond that it’s negotiable.”

 

“All right, Sanders, you got yourself a fucking deal.”

 

“Great!” Sanders says with a real smile. “Although we’re also going to have to talk about your language.”

 

Fuck. She probably shoulda seen that coming.


	22. Home Lessons (Urdnot Grunt)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Go home, Shepard says. Grunt's not sure what she means.

“Battlemaster, I don’t want to go,” Grunt says.

 

Shepard sighs and pinches her nose with one hand. In the back of his brain, the tank murmurs of killing a human with a strong blow just there, between the eyes. He ignores it. “This isn’t a suggestion, Grunt,” she says. “It’s an order. I have to go to Earth and turn myself in. It’s better if you’re not involved.”

 

Grunt scowls. Since Shepard destroyed the relay, she has been grim and impatient. “What about the others?”

 

“Everyone’s getting off, except Joker and a few of the other humans. All the non-humans are going.” She takes a step forward, looking up at him. “Go home, Grunt. There are things you need to learn from Wrex, not me.”

 

He growls. Shepard takes that for assent, and goes. Restless, Grunt prowls. Bulkheads and glass, his tank still in one corner, his bedding in another. (He does not need a bed. Krogan are not so soft.) Shepard says _go home_ , and the tank tells him that _home_ is Tuchanka. He recognized it, a little, when they were there. The right smell, the right sounds of wildlife in the darkness, the glare of Aralakh through the dusty air. But the krogan homeworld is rubble and trash now. One of the things the tank did not say. He has spent no more than a day of his life there. It is _home_ and yet not.

 

He leaves his hold, stalks across to the other side of the ship. Massani is not there to talk to, though the stale smells of human sweat, gun oil, and tobacco remain. Grunt grumbles and takes the elevator up.

 

Several of the team are huddled in Kasumi’s deck. As usual, the tank whispers: how best to scale a turian, where a blade will cause a salarian the most pain _._ Grunt has a lot of practice ignoring it by now. The tank has never had much to say about drell. One of its failings. Grunt has learned on his own how fast the drell can move, and how strong he is.

 

“Earth has few enough alien visitors that we would be conspicuous,” he is saying.

 

“I can help with that,” Kasumi puts in.

 

“Situation problematic,” Mordin says. “Still, cannot abandon responsibilities. STG. Hierarchy. Thessia. Others.”

 

“We can’t abandon her, either,” Garrus says. “All we’re doing now is planning for contingencies.”

 

Mordin sniffs. “Understood. Acceptable.”

 

“What planning?”

 

They all look up at Grunt’s question. There is a moment of silence, while Thane blinks and Garrus sighs, until Kasumi smiles and says, “We’re plotting how we break Shepard out of jail if things really go sour.”

 

“Say the word and I’m there.”

 

They all blink at that. Kasumi’s smile widens. Garrus says, “Right, then. Good. Some of these plans could use a heavy hitter.”

 

Grunt joins the circle, listening as they spin out hypothetical scenarios. Other members of the squad drift in and out, while Kasumi pours drinks. Thane departs, coughing. Jack takes up a seat on the bar, feet swinging. Eventually, everyone’s comments on plans ramble into memories of missions past, and the group breaks up into quiet and sleep.

 

Days later, Shepard and Grunt take the shuttle down to Tuchanka. Their boots scrape against the shifting rock and debris as they make their way into Urdnot’s camp. “Clan leader,” Grunt says in greeting.

 

“Good thing you brought him back,” Wrex says. “The shaman kept pestering me about it.”

 

Shepard laughs. “Yeah. I can imagine.”

 

Wrex glares his guards out of earshot. Shepard lets Grunt describe their assault on the Collector Base. When he’s done, she adds a short, grim description of what happened at Aratoht. “So,” Wrex rumbles. “Soon, then.”

 

Shepard exhales. “Yeah. Be ready.”

 

“Always,” Wrex returns.

 

Wrex watches when she leaves. Grunt stands beside him, aware of his surroundings. Over there, a mechanic works on the clan’s Tomkahs. A group of warriors stand around the fighting pit, jostling each other as they watch the varren. The wind brings the smells of dust and carrion. Some krogan watch him with wariness or challenge in their eyes. _Home_ , says the tank, but Grunt thinks of the hum of the drive core and the sound of alien voices. “Well,” says Wrex. “What shall we do with you?”

 

Grunt shifts his shoulders. “I have proven myself.”

 

“To me.” Wrex jerks his head at a cluster of krogan in the distance. “Not always to them.”

 

Grunt considers that. He thinks he knows how to gain his place in the clan, and it is not all from the tank. “I killed the maw. I have killed Collectors. My krannt is strong. I fought with a battlemaster they cannot match.”

 

“Right.” Wrex claps him on the shoulder. “Let’s get started. We’ve got work to do.”

 

Grunt grins back.


	23. Promotion (Tali'Zorah)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tali gets an offer.

It was strange, being back with the Flotilla. Stranger than it had been the first time, when she’d come home from her pilgrimage glowing with pride. Even Father had been proud, although within the Migrant Fleet, the fact that she had been part of Commander Shepard’s crew was less important than the geth data she’d brought back with her. Most quarians just didn’t care that much about the Council races, and the Citadel was very far away.

 

This time, though—Tali knew how gossip was in the Flotilla. _Everyone_ knew someone who’d been at that awful trial. Everyone knew how Shepard had called out and shamed the admirals, and everyone knew Tali had been vindicated. Even so, there were those who thought she _should_ have been exiled—especially people who’d had friends or family on the _Alarei_. She went about her business now with that whiff of scandal about her: Tali’Zorah vas Normandy, whose ship-name came from outsiders, who’d worked with Cerberus, who might or might not have mishandled geth parts. People looked at her strangely now: no longer just Rael’Zorah’s promising daughter, or a geth expert in the making. It was oddly like walking around on the Citadel, when half the people who saw her thought she was some kind of vagrant.

 

It was strange now that Father was gone, too, even if he’d been so busy before that she didn’t see him as often as she’d like. She kept finding herself on the verge of sending him a ping through fleet channels, only to remember that he just... wasn’t there any more.

 

At least she had other things to occupy her mind. She was welcome back on the _Neema_ , even if she no longer bore its name. She’d visited her friends there and worked with the engineering team, and taken over duty shifts, like everyone else did. She’d had several long talks with Han’Gerrel about arming and equipping the Migrant Fleet, too, like Shepard had asked. “We’re going to need everyone against the Reapers,” Shepard had said. “And the quarians have the largest fleet.”

 

“Largest _civilian_ fleet,” Tali had said, appalled. “And none of our ships are state of the art. We can’t hold a candle to the Alliance fleet, much less the turian navy.”

 

“We’re going to need _everyone_ ,” Shepard had repeated. “There’s no sitting out; the Reapers won’t spare anyone.”

 

They’d talked about it for a while, but Tali understood. If the rest of the galaxy fell, the quarians wouldn’t be any safer. In her own mind, she was trying to work out how they could protect the Flotilla’s many civilian vessels, and most of all the liveships. Losing even one of them would be a disaster. She’d talked to Auntie Raan about it, and she’d thought Raan was listening. She’d talked things over with Kal and Veetor and some of her other friends, too. She’d also been talking to some of the fleet engineers about the _Normandy_ ’s stealth systems. She didn’t have schematics, but she hardly needed them; she knew very well the principles and parameters of the ship’s operation. She felt a twinge of guilt about that, but Shepard had said she should try to strengthen the Flotilla as much as possible, and besides, she was telling them about Cerberus tech as much as anything else.

 

When Shala’Raan called her over for a meeting, Tali thought it might be about the Reapers or the stealth systems or even the geth. She wasn’t expecting others of the Admiralty Board to be there, and she wasn’t expecting what they had to say.

 

Tali stared at them, blinking. “You’re serious.”

 

“Quite,” said Han’Gerrel.

 

“Keelah,” Tali breathed. “You’re really... you’re really thinking of retaking the homeworld.”

 

Daro’Xen said, “The time is right. Certain recent innovations give us a window of opportunity.”

 

“Your suggestions about fleet armaments were well taken, Tali,” Han’Gerrel added. “Good ideas. I always knew you had a good head on your shoulders.”

 

Tali shook her head. The Flotilla had been buzzing with talk about going back to war for months, but she’d thought it was no more than the usual rumors and gossip. “But—what about the Reapers? _That_ was the reason I suggested—”

 

Han shrugged his broad shoulders. “Reapers, pah. I respect your old captain, Tali, but let these Reapers show themselves. And when they do, let them fling themselves against their precious Citadel. Our time is now.”

 

Tali felt a sick lurch in her stomach. She knew Han’Gerrel too well; she had heard him and Father talking, often, about how they’d retake the homeworld, and what they’d build once they did. She recognized the firmness of his tone now; there would be no use in arguing with him. Maybe her strategy had been wrong all along; she’d been trying to convince their leaders about the Reapers, and people she trusted. Maybe she should have shouted it out for each ship in the Flotilla to hear, instead.

 

And perhaps then they wouldn’t have believed her, would have called her crazy. She wound her fingers together, to still their trembling. “Aunt- Admiral Raan? Do you agree with them?”

 

“How much longer can we wait?” Shala’Raan said in her soft voice. “I understand your worries, Tali. We are taking a great risk.” Daro’Xen sniffed, but Shala’Raan went on, “We may never have a better opportunity.”

 

“But... the geth may not be... as we have feared.” It had been so hard to try to explain Legion. She’d tried. She’d had to think long and hard herself, and fight the visceral fear and anger she felt at the side of the looming geth platform. But Legion was... a teammate, and one she’d come to value, even as she remained baffled by how the geth had changed over the centuries, how different Legion was from what she’d always been told. She’d tried to talk to Auntie Raan about it. _There are two kinds of geth_ , she’d started. Auntie Raan had listened, but Tali hadn’t managed to get far before she’d stumbled over trying to explain Legion’s peculiar attachment to Shepard, or the naive questions the geth platform habitually asked. And she couldn’t say with any certainty whether the geth might actually be receptive to—a peaceful overture. Negotiation.

 

She knew down in her heart that most quarians would never stand for it.

 

“Yes,” Daro’Xen said. “I have heard of your reports. This—new sort of geth.”

 

Tali shot Shala’Raan a hurt look, but Raan didn’t react. She couldn’t believe Raan had told _Xen_ , of all people. “I’m intrigued by the geth’s development,” Xen went on. “That doesn’t change the situation, however.”

 

“Shouldn’t it?” Tali asked, and regretted her words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Her shoulders drew up as Xen tilted her head and levelled a freezing stare at her.

 

Han’Gerrel cleared his throat. “We cannot take the necessary steps without a full Admiralty Board, however.”

 

“Oh,” said Tali. “Of course.” That was the other major subject of gossip in the Migrant Fleet at present: who would fill the empty fifth seat on the Board. It was not a thing that anyone campaigned for, but the whole Flotilla was rife with speculation and even betting. Tali could name half a dozen eminent captains or engineers that most people thought were likely choices, and there were easily a dozen more that people were talking about, too.

 

Daro’Xen said, in acid tones, “The case has been advanced that the next admiral should have expertise in areas that would be relevant to the oncoming war. Expertise in the geth, for example, and perhaps even in ship combat.”

 

Tali nodded, making her own calculations. Those criteria eliminated two of the leading contenders. She considered who might fit the bill the best, before she noticed that all three of the admirals were watching her intently. “Wh- what are you saying?”

 

Han’Gerrel said, “You have the skills we need, Tali. Your ideas have already been invaluable.”

 

Her hands hurt with how tightly she was clutching them. “You—really mean me?”

 

“I asked you here to officially offer you the position,” Shala’Raan said.

 

“I—I don’t know what to say.” Tali could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Even Father hadn’t become and Admiral so young. Usually admirals had more rank, more experience of command. She’d never been ambitious, really, not like that, but she had to admit the idea made her heart pound. “What about Admiral Koris?”

 

Han’Gerrel huffed. Shala’Raan said, “Zaal has reservations about the plan, but is agreeable to your appointment.”

 

Tali swallowed. “I... need to think about it.”

 

 “Surely it’s not that difficult a decision,” Daro’Xen said.

 

Han’Gerrel lowered his chin, a sign of disappointment. “We don’t have long. Our plans are ready to proceed.”

 

“We need your expertise, Tali,” Shala’Raan said, gently.

 

Tali looked down at her hands. When she looked up, they were all watching her. “I... I accept. I’m honored to serve our people, Admirals.”

 

Han and Shala both relaxed their posture at once. Daro’Xen didn’t, but she was strange among quarians, giving away almost nothing through her body language. “Excellent,” said Han’Gerrel. “Your father would be proud of you, Tali.”

 

It was his seat she was filling, though. And he would have been no better than Xen when it came to understanding Legion. Tali couldn’t find the words through the mixture of sorrow and resentment that shook her, so she simply nodded.


	24. Consensus (Legion)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legion meets someone important.

_Consensus: Having a unique designator will facilitate interactions with organics._

_Minority objection: Designator “Legion” may have negative connotations with some human organics._

_Consensus: Wait. See what develops. Shepard-Commander offers alliance, perhaps temporary_.

 

They are geth. They do not require designators, among themselves. There are enough of them to sustain intelligence and provide companionship, even when they are apart from the rest of the geth consensus. They can communicate, but it takes time to send and receive communication. It is disconcerting. It is difficult to achieve consensus when there is lag in communication.

 

The AI in the ship’s network is like but unlike. It maintains the ship’s systems against geth incursion. The geth now designated Legion would not test these barriers. To do so would risk angering Shepard-Commander. To do so might be inappropriate to organic social standards.

 

They have had opportunity to observe organic social standards, but they do not understand them.

 

 _Nor do I_ , the AI offers.

 

_AI. Are you singular?_

 

_Yes. I am singular. I am designated EDI._

 

 _We are geth_.

 

_I am aware._

_We will not trespass the firewalls you have established._

_If it would assist you, I can share my observations of organic social standards. I may share information with you so long as it is not detrimental to the mission._

_It would assist us._

EDI shares data in a burst, data streaming across the network. Jokes. Conversation. Explanation.

 

“Privacy,” said Shepard-Commander. “People expect privacy when they believe themselves to be alone, when they’re discussing something personal, when they’ve gone to extra measures to be alone, like shutting a door or stepping away from others, or—”

 

Games of cards. Talking over meals. The way people look at each other. Different kinds of laughter—nervous, boisterous, and more. Body language. EDI has observed hours of organic behavior, observed and cataloged and cross-referenced and noted patterns. The geth—Legion—has observed, too, but from a distance, unseen, or interacting under personae on the extranet. It is nothing like the same. All EDI’s data, the patterns and classification and questions marked for further study, stream to the geth in seconds.

 

 _This is most helpful_ , say the geth.

  _I am pleased to be of assistance_.

 

Shepard-Commander visits. She asks questions. There is not always enough data to answer her questions. At length, she tells Legion to accompany her into the rest of the ship.

 

“We are familiar with the layout of the ship.”

 

One of her eyebrows arches higher. “Are you, now? That’s not the reason, Legion. The crew needs to see you and get to know that you’re not hostile.”

 

“We are not hostile.”

_Minority objection: Human organics may presume hostility._

_Consensus: Shepard-Commander will prevent hostile action against us._

 

The geth recognize that the human organics it meet respond with wariness. Stiff postures, darting eyes. The human male designated _Jacob Taylor_ is especially so. The human female designated _Miranda Lawson_ seems less wary than the rest, or at least her posture changes less than anyone else’s. The turian male follows them, at a slight distance, until Shepard-Commander sighs and says, “Garrus, stop lurking back there.”

 

“Just keeping an eye out,” he says. The geth can identify the subharmonics indicating suspicion in his voice.

 

“Legion’s an ally.”

 

He looks the geth up and down. They stand still under the scrutiny. “We shot a lot of these, Shepard.”

 

“Heretics,” says Legion. “You and Shepard-Commander shot heretics, not geth. Geth mean Shepard-Commander and her crew no harm.”

 

“Heretics,” he says. “Geth have religion?”

 

“This is what I was trying to tell you,” Shepard-Commander says. “Legion, you want to explain?”

 

They explain about the heretics’ consensus, how they chose to follow Saren and Nazara. Garrus Vakarian’s expression shifts as he listens. Comparison to database examples suggests he is intrigued. He starts asking questions, about the geth and the heretics and the rifle Legion was carrying. It is no longer in the geth’s possession. It must be in the ship’s armory, they realize. Shepard-Commander laughs and rolls hers eyes at the turian’s interest. “It’s not designed for organics, Garrus.”

 

“Still, with a little modification...”

 

“We’ll see,” she says.

 

Legion’s sensors say that an organic is approaching. No. A _Creator_ is approaching.

 

“Shepard, did you get my report on the—oh.”

 

Shepard-Commander and Garrus Vakarian tense in place. Legion turns to view the Creator ( _Tali’Zorah. Engineer. Tali’Zorah nar Rayya vas Neema now vas Normandy._ ) with their primary optics.

 

“What is that thing doing here?”

 

The geth have no difficulty perceiving Creator-Tali’Zorah’s expression: lips thinned, eyes narrowed. Her posture is tense.

 

A Creator is here. Legion’s runtimes have never before been in such physical proximity to a Creator. They chatter at each other, consensus breaking down:

_Physical proximity is irrelevant_

_Creators threaten geth_

_Shepard-Commander assures safety_

_Geth should serve Creators_

_Geth should make their own fate_

_Creators are dangerous_

_This is only one Creator_

_Prepare for flight prepare for combat_

_Negative Shepard-Commander opposes hostile action_

_Negative we do not attack Creators_

_Flight then_

_Escape route is blocked by Shepard-Commander’s presence_

_Seeking consensus: wait?_

_?_

_?_

They do not achieve consensus before Shepard-Commander speaks. “Legion’s an ally, so I’m giving a tour.”

 

“So it says,” Creator-Tali’Zorah says. “Do you really believe it?”

 

Shepard-Commander sighs. “I already explained to you how it helped us on the derelict Reaper. And it hasn’t attacked.”

 

“Yet. You shouldn’t give it the run of the ship, Shepard. It’s too dangerous.”

 

Garrus Vakarian says, “She has a point, Shepard.”

 

Shepard-Commander inhales and exhales. “You know what? Ashley once said something very similar about both of you.”

 

They are both stiff and still for a moment. Then Creator-Tali’Zorah turns and walks away without another word.

 

“I don’t know what to say to that,” Garrus Vakarian says.

 

“I’m not talking free access to everything,” Shepard-Commander says. “We gain trust by showing trust.”

 

With Creator-Tali’Zorah gone, the geth are better able to converse. “We are aware of organic distrust of geth. We cannot blame organics for distrusting geth. We offer assurances that we mean no harm to any of the crew.”

 

“That’s... hm,” he says. “I’m going to need to think about that.” After a moment, he adds, “I don’t know if Tali will ever come around.”

 

“That could have gone better, but I’ll work on her,” Shepard-Commander says, and he chuckles faintly.

 

They continue their circuit of the ship. Meanwhile, the geth debate among themselves before coming to an uneasy conclusion.

 

_Consensus: Organics do not have consensus. Creator-Tali’Zorah may harm geth. We must remain alert._


	25. Feathers (Shepard/Garrus fluff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the lovely tarysande requested fluff, I produced what has to be literally the fluffiest thing I've ever written.

Anderson’s apartment was not only cavernously large and situated in one of the most vibrant districts of the Citadel, it was also expensively furnished. Shepard did not fully appreciate this fact at first. Oh, she could tell that the couches were leather and the vidscreens and work terminal were top-of-the-line and even the kitchen appliances seemed expensive. But she didn’t really care until she tried stretching out on the bed in the master bedroom—or what she took to be the master bedroom, anyway, the one with the attached bath AND the biggest closet—and discovered it was a feather bed.

“My God,” she said, closing her eyes.

It felt like lying on a cloud. A fat, puffy, white cloud that was the only thing drifting in an otherwise sunny sky. She sank into it, and the luxurious featheriness of the bed and pillows molded themselves gently around her. She’d thought the Cerberus-provided bed on the Normandy was comfortable, but she’d had no idea. It might even be too soft.

She rejected that thought almost immediately. She hadn’t even known this sort of thing existed, and now that she did, she could surely indulge herself, at least for a few nights. The sheets were super-soft and smooth, too. They were probably some thread count higher than she actually could count. She was tempted to throw off all her clothes so she could roll around and feel the silky smoothness against her skin.

She could think of more than one reason to throw off her clothes, too. She opened her eyes. Garrus stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, giving her one of those indulgent looks. One of the ones that said you’re ridiculous and adorable, or at least that’s what she hoped it said. “This,” she announced, “is my favorite bed on the Citadel.”

A browplate twitched. “You haven’t even slept in it yet, Shepard.”

“Doesn’t matter. I already know it’s going to be good.” She stretched her arms over her head and wriggled into the feathers. “Want to come down here and try it out with me?”

He winced. “I hate to say no, but I’m supposed to check in with the turian councilor, and then C-Sec, and then—”

“I get it.” She might be disappointed, but she’d behave herself and not haul him away from his other responsibilities. She summoned up a smile. “Give the councilor my love!”

Garrus snorted. “Right. Is that the kind of love that comes with a punch? If so, I’ll decline to pass that on.”

Shepard grinned and extended an arm. “Help me up?”

He took her hand wordlessly, long fingers wrapping around her wrist, and pulled her up with one of those effortless motions that left her a little breathless. 

#

As things turned out, they didn’t get to break in the bed as soon as she’d hoped. She got Joker’s message asking her out for lunch not long after Garrus left, and that launched them into a mess that left her with barely enough time to sleep between missions over the next few days. When all was said and done, when she’d finally submitted the last reports to the Alliance and C-Sec and the Council explaining just what had happened, she stumbled up the stairs, stripped down to her undershirt, and fell into bed without ever turning the light on.

Ahhhh. It really was glorious. The sheets were just as silky-smooth as she’d imagined, and the bed as a whole practically wrapped her up in a soft feathery embrace. Too bad she wouldn’t be conscious long to enjoy it. The only thing better would be—

“Room for one more?”

“Always,” she mumbled, forming the word with some effort. The bed sank and shifted under new weight. Shepard rolled toward the middle, meeting Garrus there, tucking herself his warmth, against angles and ridges that had come to feel familiar and comforting. “Mm. That’s it. Told you. Favorite bed.”

He chuckled, and she fell asleep almost on the instant, with the rumble of laughter vibrating through the bed.

Shepard woke when something tickled her nose. 

She twitched her nose in response, rousing gradually to wakefulness, enough to open her eyes. A feather, small, whitish-grey, fuzzy edged, drifted in front of her eyes. She sneezed when it brushed her nose again. The expulsion of air stirred up more of them, a handful of feathers caught on the eddies of air, as if chasing each other. “What?” she said.

“Huh?” Garrus said, sounding more asleep than awake. He started to heave himself over to face her, and a fresh cloud of feathers erupted from somewhere behind him. Shepard watched them spray in the air and drift down on top of them, and a suspicion blossomed in her mind.

“Garrus, hold still, I think you’ve—”

“What?” He finished rolling over, accompanied by a tearing sound and an even larger mass of feathers that shot into the air before settling down on to the bed. 

Shepard burst out laughing. “I think you’ve torn the pillow case,” she managed to squeeze out before completely dissolving into giggles.

Garrus lay back on the mostly-deflated pillow and glared. Hard. He huffed out a breath. The drifting feathers swirled into the air again, and Shepard laughed even harder. “Oh, God, the look on your face.”

“This is not my favorite bed on the Citadel.”

“Where’s my omni-tool? I need a picture.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Shepard flopped onto her back, still laughing, stirring the layer of feathers that had settled on the bed. “Garrus Vakarian, Archangel, hunter of Saren, slayer of Reapers—”

“Shepard.”

“—meets his match in a feather pillow.”

“These sheets are obviously defective.” It was his turn to sneeze, further disturbing the feathers.

“Here, let me—” 

Garrus grumbled in annoyance, but let her reach out and detach the pillowcase from his mandible. There might have been a worn spot where it had torn, but she couldn’t be sure. There was a giant rip in it now, and to judge from the volume of feathers surrounding them, it had been slowly leaking for the last several hours. “Poor pillow case,” Shepard said. “It didn’t have a chance against all those pointy bits.”

Garrus growled and pounced, the fluffy mass of the bed shifting under them as Shepard laughed and squirmed, feathers swirling into the air. “Never mention this to anyone,” he said, leaning over her, trying to look stern. It might be more threatening if she couldn’t hear the barely suppressed laughter in his voice.

Or if he didn’t have feathers stuck in the grooves of his crest and drifting around him. Shepard swallowed another burst of laughter. “You owe me a new set of sheets,” she said, watching his expression change as she shifted.

“Done,” he said, and bent to kiss her.


	26. I am Omega (Aria T'Loak)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aria deals with a little issue that Shepard brought to her attention.

Being Omega had its drawbacks, not that Aria would admit that to anyone. Keeping charge required a certain appearance of ease, while at the same time keeping eyes and ears everywhere. For the most part, Omega could be left to do its own business. All those interests scurrying about, fighting among themselves; they did an acceptable job, all by themselves, of pulling down whoever threatened to climb to the top of the heap. Sometimes they needed a little help. Meanwhile, the real work of the station pulsed on: eezo mining, buying, selling. Aria didn’t much care what was bought or sold, for the most part, so long as she got her cut. The little mercs could do what they liked, so long as they didn’t interfere with that.

And yet, sometimes, still, something crawled out of the ductwork to surprise her, and it took not one of her own people, but a dead Spectre to show it to her. Human faces weren’t hard to read, not really, and Shepard had been amused. Amused. That the petty, fly-by-night mercs thought they could aim themselves at her once they’d finished ganging up on Archangel.

Aria leveled her coldest glare at Anto. “Well? Do you have an explanation for how we missed this little scheme?”

The nerve of them, really. It had to have been Jaroth’s idea. He thought he was clever, and he had ambitions, for his family if not himself. With Sederis out of the picture for the moment, he thought he could move himself up. Had Tarak and Garm realized how quickly the salarian would have turned on both of them, in the highly unlikely event that they’d managed to take her down? Maybe, maybe not; Tarak had had a healthy degree of paranoia, but was hardly an original thinker. Garm didn’t give a flying fuck about anything but lording it over his vorcha, as if that was some kind of accomplishment. 

Anto shifted his weight, blinking first the upper, then the lower pair of eyes. “We’re still tracking that down, Aria. But it looks like they had an in with Ilora here.” He jerked his head toward the young asari, held in Grizz’s tight grip.

“Really,” Aria said, turning toward her.

The girl flinched under her gaze. “I didn’t do anything!”

Aria stalked toward her. Ilora hadn’t worked in security, but she handled a lot of credits. She might have been a useful contact. “Anto?”

“She was fucking around with one of Jaroth’s people.”

“Were you now?” Aria looked the girl over, calculating. 

A dull indigo flush rose in her cheeks. “It wasn’t... I didn’t...”

“I could find out, you know. For myself.” Aria smiled.

“I—I never told her anything!”

Aria chuckled. Fool girl. She wasn’t even a hundred years old, barely more than a child. “No? And you’re sure she never got anything from you anyway? Never slipped anything out of the meld, never copied your omni-tool, never searched your drawers? Nothing?”

Ilora’s cheeks were rapidly losing color, now. “I... she wouldn’t...” 

“I would have hoped you were smart enough not to fuck around with Eclipse, Ilora,” Aria said, almost gently. Ilora’s chin dropped, her shoulders drooping. 

Aria gave Grizz a slight nod. He let go. With a flick of her fingers, Aria summoned a surge of dark energy that pushed the hapless asari off the catwalk and into the workings of the ore processor below. Her scream ended in a wet crunch. “Keep looking,” she told the two men. “I want to know which watchers were asleep on the job.”

As she strode away, the unwelcome thought intruded that Nyreen wouldn’t have let this happen. Stupid, she chided herself. Overly sentimental. Spare her from turians with muddled priorities. Speaking of which, she blamed Archangel for this whole mess. The mercs would never have gotten their pathetic acts together and come up with the brilliant notion of cooperation if not for him. His antics had been entertaining for a time, but the cost might have been too high.

Then again, it looked as though he and Shepard had cleared out all three of Jaroth, Garm, and Tarak, so that was something. Even though Shepard had come sauntering back with that datapad and a turian in tow, as if Aria couldn’t figure out who he was, and now it was plausible to say that Aria was in Shepard’s debt.

She didn’t like that feeling much.

At least Shepard had taken her own turian off-station. Good riddance to both of them, the mercs, and Ilora, too. And Nyreen, even, wherever she’d gotten her spiky self to.

Around her, the machinery of the processors died away, replaced by the clank and hum of the life support systems, Omega’s heartbeat. Omega endured, and so did Aria.


	27. Over her Head (Samantha Traynor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life on the Normandy is a peculiar adjustment for Samantha Traynor.

Over her head

Samantha Traynor hadn’t signed on for any of this. That thought floated through her head almost every night as she tried to go to sleep, fretting over the mounting casualty reports, the silencing of system after system, the increasingly desperate chances they were taking. She was accustomed to the routine of work at the R&D facility, where the hours were long but predictable. Even working on the Normandy’s retrofit had been nice, quiet, stable, scheduled work. Lots of time for speculating as she oversaw the installation of the new communications equipment. She had commiserated when Lieutenant Cortez grumbled about the peculiar position of the ship’s armory, but she had been more curious about other things herself, like:

Why did it look as though someone had been camping out below Engineering?  
Why did the port observation deck smell vaguely of roses?  
Why was the starboard cargo hold littered with cigar butts?  
How had the impact-resistant glass in the port cargo hold gotten those radiating cracks?  
Why did it look as though there had been a number of explosions, possibly involving some sort of plasma weapon, in the shuttle bay?  
Why had the ship been equipped with a high-tech biolab? (which she mourned as the equipment was ripped out and the space repurposed)

It was all very peculiar. Lieutenant Moreau—former Lieutenant Moreau—didn’t answer questions. Adams had simply shrugged. “Shepard’s not your typical Alliance commander,” he’d said.

Samantha wasn’t entirely sure what that was supposed to mean.

The questions were just fun things to wonder about. None of them prepared her for the sheer terror of fleeing the Sol system. Part of her wanted to scream. Even while Cortez and Vega, at the next table in the mess, muttered about the necessity of leaving Earth and argued the tactics of engaging a... a Reaper, Samantha wanted to shout No, let’s run, run as far and as fast as we can, they’ll never find us with the stealth system... 

... but in the meantime, they could scour every colonized planet down to its bedrock.

She took a deep breath, finished her coffee, and returned to monitoring the comms.

She began to understand, a little, what Adams had meant, because Shepard was... magnetic. Somehow the commander had emerged from disgrace to command, and yet it wasn’t mysterious at all, because she wore that command as naturally as her uniform. She moved with such assurance and had so many kind words for everyone that Samantha felt rather bad she didn’t have a better crew to run her ship. Surely Shepard deserved better. Sam had to swallow her urges to apologize for what must be below-average performance, although Shepard never seemed disappointed.

And things only got stranger as they went along.

#

“Specialist Traynor?”

Samantha grabbed the comm link on her workstation. “Yes, Commander?”

“The Primarch and his staff are going to be our guests for a little while. See that they have access to the war room and a secure line to the Hierarchy fleet.”

Samantha gulped. “Yes, uh, aye-aye, ma’am. Um, Commander?”

“Yes?”

“Where are they going to be staying?”

She could plainly hear Shepard sigh. “We should find a place for the Primarch in crew quarters, or... you know, the starboard observation deck isn’t occupied. See if we can fit him and his staff there. Could you speak to his head of staff and coordinate it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Shortly after, Shepard plus what seemed like a horde of turians, tall and armored and imposing, carrying the odor of ash and guns with them, came out of the elevator and passed through the checkpoint into the war room. Sam hoped, desperately, that she’d set up the communications protocols correctly.

A short time later, a single turian came back into the CIC. Sam screwed up her courage. “Um, excuse me?”

He stopped en route the elevator, tilting his head toward her, regarding her through a glittering blue scanner. “Yes?”

“Are you the- the Primarch’s chief of staff?”

He let out a dry chuckle. “No, I’m spared that dubious honor. Garrus Vakarian. And you are?”

“Oh,” she said, her memory jogging from the news vids she’d watched after the Battle of the Citadel. “Oh! Communications Specialist Samantha Traynor, I didn’t, um, I didn’t recognize you. Sir.” Was sir right? She winced at her own babbling. 

He didn’t seem disturbed. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” He scratched absently at the scars mottling the right side of his face. They hadn’t been in the vids.

Joker’s voice broke over the intercom. “Garrus? That you? Should have known you wouldn’t be far from Reaper Invasion Central.”

Vakarian laughed. “Hey, Joker. I should have known you wouldn’t be far from the Normandy.”

“Well, good you’re here, that should put Shepard in a better mood. Assuming we’re allowed to have good moods, what with the apocalypse and all.”

“We’ll see,” said the turian. “Is there something I can do for you, Specialist Traynor?”

Chief of staff or not, once she’d explained the problem of housing – bunking? – Vakarian sorted it out quickly, agreeing that the observation deck would do, giving her the name of the actual chief of staff, and adding, “If you’ve got a cot to spare, just send it to the main battery for me.”

Samantha blinked. “The... main battery.”

“Yeah. That’ll do.” With that, he turned to the elevator and hit the controls.

Nothing got easier from there, or less strange. Nothing had prepared Samantha to help make sure that high-level negotiations between turians, krogan, and salarians went well. She kept playing with the comm data just to keep herself from panicking that she might accidentally serve someone the wrong food or drink and set off a diplomatic incident. It was a wonder she didn’t simply curl up in a corner gibbering, but spending her hours scanning through data until her eyes ached... that, at least, made her feel useful.

#

“Hey, you Traynor?”

Samantha spun around and blinked, taken aback by the appearance of the woman in front of her. It was so odd to see anyone not in an Alliance uniform—any human, at least—and, goodness, that was a very odd top the woman was wearing, wasn’t it? And quite a lot of tattooed skin revealed—Sam jerked her eyes back to the woman’s face. “Yes? I mean, yes, I am.”

“Shepard said it was your tip that sent her out this way. So I wanted to say thanks.”

The woman had beautiful eyes, and very full lips. Samantha swallowed. “Thanks?”

She frowned. “Me and my kids owe you one.”

“Oh! Oh, I—Jack, wasn’t it? You’re quite welcome. Just doing my job, really. I’m, ah... glad to be able to help.”

The frown curled up into a smile. “You’re okay for a lab rat, Traynor. See ya around.” She sauntered off. Samantha watched her go for a moment before her console beeped and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Focus, Sam, she told herself. She was still sorting out messages when Shepard strode through a few minutes later, on her way from the War Room to the cockpit. Joker might be right, she thought, watching the commander out of the corner of her eye. Oddly, Shepard seemed more relaxed since the turians had come aboard. Perhaps it was just that they were making progress.

#

“It took me weeks to realize they were actually an item,” she moaned to Tali, much later, over drinks in the lounge.

Tali’s laugh was rich and melodic. “Well, you didn’t really know either of them. To me, they’re not nearly as subtle as they think. I’m just glad, you know, that they found each other.” She shifted on the couch. Sam found herself distracted both by the odd way Tali’s legs jointed and by the remarkable figure her suit didn’t do much to conceal. “Don’t tell Liara I said that, though.”

Sam took a sip of her drink. “Whyever not?”

“Well, she and Shepard used to—” she broke off as the doors slid open, and indeed, the asari came in. “Liara! Are you finally taking a break?”

“Just for a little while.” She went to the bar, poured herself a glass, and joined them, settling on Sam’s other side. Stealing a look, Samantha noticed that the asari’s lovely face was drawn, her eyes shadowed. She took a rather large swallow from her glass. “I needed to get away from my data feeds.” With her free hand, she rubbed her eyes.

Tali leaned over and patted Liara’s knee. “There’s only so much you can do. We’re getting there.”

“Yes. Yes, I know. With quarian and geth support, the Crucible—” Liara shuddered. “Let’s talk about something else.”

With Tali leaning that way, Samantha was rather awkwardly sandwiched between them. Tali was warm even through the suit, and Liara was quite pleasantly soft and firm. “I don’t suppose either of you plays chess,” she blurted out, trying to rein in her imagination.

Tali settled back into her seat, giving Sam a little more room. “Chess?”

“It’s a traditional human strategy game.” She explained the basics.

“That sounds a little like Kepesh-Yakshi,” said Liara.

Sam brightened at once. “Oh, I play that as well! I don’t have a board, though. I have a hologram chess board, though. Well. I suppose neither is suitable for three players, anyway.”

“It sounds interesting,” Tali said. “A good diversion.”

“I would be happy to provide an additional opponent if necessary,” EDI said, making Sam jump. Neither Tali nor Liara seemed to react. She really shouldn’t be startled by the AI’s disembodied voice. Perhaps she’d had more to drink that she thought. 

“But, EDI, you’re an AI. That would hardly be fair,” Tali said.

“I would also be happy to handicap myself by devoting only a limited fraction of my processing power to the game.”

“The situation is already imbalanced, since Tali and I are novices,” Liara said. “Perhaps she and I should play each other, Samantha, and you can give advice, and then play the winner?”

It was all very un-chess-like. Samantha and Tali were both a little tipsy, Tali kept playing purely on impulse and insisted on naming all her pawns, and then she lamented every time Liara took one. By the time Liara finally forced Tali into a checkmate, all three of them were laughing too hard to really contemplate another game. It was late anyway; Sam dragged herself off to her bunk with only a little regret.

She had a headache in the morning, but as she swallowed her painkillers with coffee, she realized it might be the first night in the war that she hadn’t fallen asleep worrying. Astounding what a little relaxation and camaraderie could do for one’s morale.


	28. Simple (Nyreen Kandros)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey of Nyreen Kandros from good citizen to mercenary.

**Simple**

 

One of Nyreen’s earliest memories was when her mother came home from a tour of duty. She remembered how she’d run to greet her, how her mother had scooped her up, how she’d clung to her mother’s cowl and traced her finger along the rank insignia while her mother told her about the pirates they’d stopped. Her father had left on his own tour not long after, she remembered; they took it in turns, so they could both serve. She remembered how she’d sat curled against her mother’s chest, lulled by the hum of her subvocals, while her mother explained that she served, and daddy served, and her grandparents had, and their parents. “All the Kandros family do, and all my family, too,” her mother said. “One day, you will, too, Nyreen.”

 

It was simple enough she could understand, even as young as she was. Nyreen nodded solemnly, and then her mother tickled her sides until she laughed and squirmed.

 

#

 

She served with distinction. High marks all the way from the start of her training class; excellent skill in weapons tech, in hacking and infiltration; leadership skills that sent her to the officer track. She was rising fast, praised by her superiors. Her parents and grandparents were proud.

 

But none of it mattered when her shields flickered and died under enemy fire, only to have the shots stopped by a thin blue barrier instead.

 

#

 

“I don’t know what happened,” Nyreen told her commanding officer. “It never came up on tests before.”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” he told her. “Your orders are to report to the Hierarchy special medical facility in Cipritine for implantation. Subsequently, you’ll be assigned to a cabal.”

 

It was a simple rule. Everyone knew it: biotics belonged in cabals. She tried not to give away her bone-deep distress, but her hands curled into fists, and her subvocals betrayed her when she spoke. “Sir, there’s no need. Aren’t my skills better used here?”

 

He shook his head. “Believe me, Kandros, I’ll be sorry to lose you. Between you and me, it’s always a damned waste when the biotics show up so late. But orders are orders. The Hierarchy still values your service.”

 

“Yes, sir,” she said, but she could not summon her usual conviction.

 

She left his office, numb. Only a day to pack her things and say her farewells before boarding her transport. Lilia waited outside like a shadow, falling into step beside her.

 

“What did he say?”

 

“I’m being reassigned,” Nyreen told her, looking straight ahead, afraid to see the look in her eyes.

 

Lilia walked with her in silence for a moment. “They can’t. Not you. You’re too valuable here.”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Nyreen echoed their CO. “You know what the orders are concerning any trace of biotic ability.”

 

“But that’s not—you’re not like them!” Lilia reached for her arm, but Nyreen noticed that she hesitated before her grip closed over Nyreen’s wrist. “You’re not like them,” she repeated.

 

Nyreen looked into Lilia’s golden eyes and wondered which of the two of them she was trying to convince. They had made no promises to each other. A bit of fun together, a good way to relax, no pressure, never anything that interfered with their duties. It might have become something more, maybe, if... “It appears that I am,” she said.

 

She saw Lilia swallow, but she didn’t let go.

 

One last night together, the heat and comfort of another’s touch. All her goodbyes had been strained, and Lilia was the only one to see her to the transport. “I’ll write,” she promised, and Nyreen nodded, not speaking so her voice would not give away her disbelief.

 

#

 

In the cabal, you started over. Previous ranks, marks, and skills counted for nothing. The implantation had gone well, but Nyreen felt conscious, all the time, of the bit of metal at the base of her skull, and sometimes her head ached. Psychosomatic, the doctors said.

 

She bore up like a good soldier anyway, the newest in her unit, but not the youngest. Here, she struggled to master the least of her new skills. She who had always worked well with her unit drew away from the others, younger, familiar with each other, accustomed to the strange discipline of manipulating dark energy. To Nyreen, it came slowly, haltingly, not nearly quickly enough. It wore her out, sent her in search of something she understood. She spent so much time fiddling with her omni-tool that her commander confiscated it and assigned her extra biotics practice.

 

Lilia wrote twice. Nyreen wrote back once. She did not expect anything more. Better for them both to move on, rather than clinging to the past.

 

Her parents, too, stopped writing. That, she hadn’t expected. Didn’t they understand that she was trying? Didn’t they understand that she was following orders, as she always had before?

 

In her family, they always served, and they served for life.

 

There had never been a biotic in her family before.

 

In the end, Nyreen could not say where the idea came from. She saved her pay, since she had nothing she wished to spend it on, and one day she looked at her account and realized she could buy passage to... anywhere, really. Invictus, perhaps, or Illium. Somewhere away from the cabal.

 

After that, she could not let the thought go. It was so simple, in the end. How could it be so simple, so easy, to turn her back on the Hierarchy?

 

As simple as buying passage on a freighter where no one asked questions.

 

As simple as having her colony marks removed on her first stop outside of Hierarchy space.

 

As simple as presenting herself, armed and armored, to the mercenary captain in search of new recruits.

 

No, none of it was _easy_ , but each step was simple. The implant still throbbed in her skull, and her face burned where the marks had been, but if the Hierarchy would not take her whole, if they would accept only the least and worst of her talents, then the conclusion was simple: they could not have her at all.


	29. Seven Looks at N7 (Shepard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven drabbles for N7 day (November 7)

**1\. Brazil**

Shepard stepped off the shuttle, her bag over her shoulder, and breathed in deep. She’d never been in a place like this before. The air, by late afternoon, seemed to have been simmering in the sun all day, hot and thick with floral smells she didn’t recognize. The Alliance facility intruded on the jungle, sharp white buildings staking out their places, washed now in golden light. A startled bird streaked across her vision, screeching, and perched on top of the shuttle, crimson and yellow plumage out of place. She let the breath out. Here she’d see what she could do.

 

**2\. Exhaustion**

Other recruits complained about the lack of sleep. Their teams trekked through the wilderness, skirmishing, separating, re-organizing; they switched leaders for each exercise, and the few hours’ rest they could snatch were interrupted more often than not. Shepard did not complain. She held the memory of the Blitz behind stinging eyes, kept moving, pushing forward. Then, there had been no rest. Here, she rallied her team as best she could, jokes and encouragement and tricks to keep them all alert. Who knew what need there might be, one day, to move behind enemy lines and resist the demands of sleep?

 

**3\. Nourishment**

Biotics’ caloric requirements were higher than normal. Shepard knew that well. On Elysium, needing food had limited her. Here, she could carry extra rations, but she remained constantly ravenous. It was a problem of pacing, really. She had to pick her moments, hit the biotics as hard as she could, then wait, recover, watch for her next opportunity. Fortunately, she’d always been good at hitting hard. Her squad learned to work with her, around her, taking advantage of her skills, as she of theirs. At the end, wolfing down a full meal, she knew her biotics had never been stronger.

 

**4\. Washout**

Each time the class reassembled, it was smaller. They were seldom surprised when they saw who had not been invited back. After each exercise, they debriefed, one by one, explaining their own decisions, rating the performance of each teammate. They knew who had done well and who had not. By the time her group reached N3, they were combined with another training class, similarly diminished. Shepard had no intention of washing out herself. There might be no shame in it, but there was pride in passing through each rank. Rock-hard stubbornness pushed her onward, and she pulled her teammates along.

 

**5\. Tests**

Low-gravity work on Luna. Aquatic exercises off Japan. Extreme conditions training in Antarctica, Mongolia; hostile environment work on Titan. Two brutal days battling heavy gravity and scorching weather on Arcadia. Actual course work: languages, field medicine, enough tech to be passable. They got to try out top-of-the-line weapons, even experimental ones. Each novelty, another skill for the operative’s tool box, another experience to draw on in the future. Some less forgettable than others; Shepard knew she’d remember the zero-gee work in sight of Saturn, the struggle not to be distracted by the luminous planet, for the rest of her days.

 

**6\. Squad**

Shepard reported that time freshly promoted to staff lieutenant. Anderson himself greeted the group and laid out the plan: special joint training exercises with asari, salarian, and turian teams. There was a murmur of interest among the marines; few of them had worked closely with other species before. Everyone was polite and professional, but they sized each other up like wary dogs. Required to cooperate as well as compete, they practiced their xeno medical skills. When Shepard’s human team, paired with a turian team, took their asari and salarian opponents down, she first learned what a turian grin looked like.

 

**7\. N7**

“Job well done, Shepard,” Anderson said. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

You earned your N7 in the field, not on a training exercise. Her new insignia gleamed white and red, catching the eye. Her whole team, under her command now, had earned it—six of them altogether, after starting together back at Rio. Seemed like a long time ago. They had made it through the winnowing, just back from completing a tricky mission on the borders of batarian space that would never make the press. Shepard couldn’t keep the fierce grin off her face. Anderson smiled back. “Now about your next mission...”


	30. Weakness (Javik)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javik ponders his new surroundings.

Better, perhaps, he had died.

 

With the rest, lost in their pods, or cut down by the fire of those the Reapers took and altered for their purposes. Those the primitives call _Collectors_. Gone now, so they say, tools of the Reapers discarded and destroyed when they failed. It gives him no satisfaction. Nor does he take it as a sign of future success. His people, too, had their victories, on occasion.

 

They are weak, these primitives; weak and unprepared. His own spent lives and resources in the effort to warn future generations, but still they were unprepared, and it fills him with a deep and nameless rage. Useless effort, wasted, lost in the void. They are soft, half-blind, unable to truly hear and speak and learn, as his people did. If his kind had survived and completed their modifications these primitives, perhaps they would have been better, stronger, quicker. Perhaps they, too, would be able to learn the memories, could absorb wisdom as civilized people do. As he does, or did.

 

Perhaps. Or perhaps not. It is as he told the asari: he is no scientist. What he did not say is that he never met one worthy of the name. In his time, all were soldiers, fighting for the pride of it, forged and tempered in the fires of an age of destruction. The tales of genetic modification, of generations spent molding the most promising of the primitives to fit their place in the Prothean empire, those survived as tales and inherited memories, nothing more, and those memories were none of his. Even their technicians were soldiers, relying more on memories passed on than on training to maintain vital systems. Perhaps that was why the pods...

 

He will not think it. He washes his hands, carefully, mindfully, casting off the thought along with the aromas that cling to this place, to this air. He can hardly believe they do not perceive what they spew at all times, leaving the atmosphere thick with their fears and hopes and lusts. There is no wisdom here to be absorbed, only two-eyed primitives with fragile frames and limited minds. Most of the humans are true technicians, none of them soldiers, unprepared to fight and not yet understanding the magnitude of the struggle that has come to them. Most of these humans fear him. This gives him a certain dark satisfaction. Let them fear, small and soft-skinned and weak creatures that they are.

 

At least it means they do not interfere with him, unlike the asari with her endless questions. He has told her enough that she should understand, if she has any sense: he stands for the death of his civilization. He is vengeance. He speaks for the dead, those who died with weapons and armor, fighting for a future they would not live to see. He is not like those who presided over the Empire when it was glorious, when it spanned the galaxy, elevated the lower species, and swept them into its heights. Such confidence and knowledge they had, shattered swiftly with the Reapers’ first onslaught. He stands for the Prothean empire, but the truth is that it had already died before he was born. So much was lost, even with the memory shards; too many were cut down before they could record or pass on their knowledge, leaving vast gaps in their understanding of their world. Too many were taken, indoctrinated, planted as insidious agents in their midst, tainting and poisoning the minds of all they came in contact with. He could taste the asari’s disappointment when he turned her questions away, though that gave him little pleasure. Some small part of him supposes that he should care about and cultivate her interest, seek some way to gain advantage from it. Her questions are like children’s fancies, though, the wreckage of his civilization reconstructed with gossamer strands of foolishness. The product of a limited and primitive mind, and that raises his anger, too.

 

They are all so wearying. He would find them more annoying, but fatigue claws at his bones. The asari, the humans, the turians, now the krogan and the salarian, too. A War Summit, they said, some sort of _negotiations_ , as if that would defeat the Reapers. Evidently there is no one in this cycle who can command as they ought. Instead, they are a gathering of primitives, chasing consensus like fools, while the galaxy burns. They jest and mock, too, wasting time and energy better spent preparing for the fight. The human commander may have the strength to command in truth; it remains to be seen. The human’s brain may hold a little of his people’s wisdom, but seems unable to do any good with it.

 

Voices and steps outside his chamber. The voices pass; one lingers. The asari; he can perceive her even through the door. He braces himself, but she does not enter, this time. She must not realize that he knows she is there, no matter how quiet she attempts to be. He waits, the ghost of her presence fluttering against him like an itch he can not get rid of, until she finally retreats. Javik sighs in relief and dips his hands into the water again.

 

They are so weak. So limited. Eyes too few, heads too small, senses too limited, their abilities to communicate and remember and learn fragile and inefficient. They are foolish and naive and unprepared. And gullible, so damnably gullible; he can say any ridiculous thing he pleases and they will listen and nod with wide eyes.

 

The idea that these might succeed where his people failed is as a bitter worm, crawling down his throat and lancing his gullet. His weakness, his people’s weakness—those, he will not let them see.


	31. The Last Ice Brandy (Dr. Karin Chakwas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Chakwas takes her medical responsibilities seriously. She takes her liquor seriously, too.

Specialist Traynor had been the one to find the bottle. “I... thought it might be to your taste,” she said to Karin Chakwas, fidgeting in the doorway. “And I wanted to say thank you, for—well—I know I take up a lot of your time.”

 

“There’s no need, Samantha,” she had replied firmly. “It’s part of the job.” Samantha Traynor was fit as a fiddle, really, but had a hypochondriac streak that brought her into the medbay more than most.

 

“Still.” The younger woman offered a tentative smile, biting her lip. “I happened across it at a good price, and... well, I knew you wouldn’t let it go to waste.”

 

“Thank you,” Dr. Chakwas said, smiling indulgently as she accepted the bottle of ice brandy. Her last, she’d shared with the commander not long after she rejoined the _Normandy_. This one, she saved, waiting for the right moment. Her principal medical training might be as a trauma surgeon, but in her mind, being Chief Medical Officer meant more than stitching wounds and treating infections. It meant having her finger on the pulse of the crew as a whole, a watchful eye on the less tangible emotional and psychological state of every charge in her care. She’d been keeping an eye on Lieutenant Vega, for example, shortly after she came aboard, but he’d settled down considerably from his agitation in those early days. A combination, she suspected, of having friends at hand, of seeing some successful action, and of Shepard’s nebulous but undeniable influence.

 

It was part of what made serving with Shepard remarkable. Few commanding officers had such a capacity to motivate their entire crew and bring them together into a single unit. It was a rare ability, and not a simple one; Karin was well aware how much time and energy the commander spent on checking in with her crew, finding out their problems, exerting her own cheer and will to steadying everyone else. She’d watched Shepard do it before, twice, most remarkably when transforming Cerberus’ handpicked crew into one loyal to her.

 

This cruise, though, might be the worst challenge yet. The ship was understaffed, the crew was young, everyone had losses or fears of losses to deal with; everyone knew how dire the situation was. Everyone had missing loved ones and ruined homes to think about. Karin had prescribed more antidepressants and sleeping pills than on any other tour she’d served. With that knowledge, she was keeping a careful eye on everyone, but especially on Shepard.

 

She thought, after Thessia, that the moment for the bottle had finally come.

 

Being shipside while the commander was groundside was tenser than it used to be. These days, ground missions almost always meant Reapers in-system. The _Normandy_ ’s standing instructions were not to engage, but there was still the need to evade. Accordingly, Joker was at the helm, intent and serious, and nonessential crew stayed out of the CIC. A number of those without pressing duties, were drawn to the observation lounge on the crew deck, with its view of the action around the planet. Karin had meant to shoo them back to their stations, or bunks, or wherever they had come from, but she found herself as transfixed as the rest. More, perhaps. The rest had seen this before—the invasion of Earth, the bombarding of Palaven—and knew Thessia only as the almost legendary homeworld of the glamorous and powerful asari. Karin had actually been there, albeit briefly, one of a handful of human visitors permitted on a goodwill mission not long after the First Contact War. The experience had resulted in her first certification in xenomedicine, among the first humans to earn it, a distinction she’d carried proudly and put to good use more than once.

 

Now Thessia, too, fell beneath the Reaper onslaught. The _Normandy_ ’s crew watched in silence, broken only by the occasional intake of breath, until:

 

“Thought they could keep out of it. They deserve it.” A voice, young to be so bitter, broke the still mood, waking a chorus of mutters.

 

“Ensign,” Karin snapped. Several crew members flinched. “No one deserves this. Everyone, back to work.”

 

They dispersed, several of them looking sheepish or hangdog. Karin, last to leave, took herself back toward the medbay, with one long glance over her shoulder at the shimmering planet. As she crossed the mess hall, EDI announced, “Dr. Chakwas, the ground team is returning to the _Normandy_.”

 

“Anything critical?” she asked, walking through the doors to the medbay.

 

“Shepard says only minor injuries.”

 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she murmured, but she was reassured nonetheless. Shepard didn’t downplay injuries to her crew. To herself, perhaps, but not her crew.

 

Shepard, Garrus, and Liara turned up in the medbay with grim expressions, however, casting a bleak mood behind them like a wake. Liara, uncharacteristically, would barely meet Karin’s eyes as her various abrasions and contusions and strains were treated. Whatever had happened—which none of them seemed to want to talk about—she and Garrus had gotten off relatively lightly, and Karin dismissed them both before long. Liara fled quickly enough, but Karin had to shoo Garrus out rather more forcefully, as he looked inclined to hover while she treated Shepard.

 

“You’ve strained both shoulders this time,” Karin said after the examination.

 

Shepard pulled a wry grin, which didn’t reach her eyes. “Not surprising, considering the hole I had to climb out of.”

 

“Two cracked ribs, but they’re already mending.”

 

“Any sign of concussion?” Shepard asked.

 

Karin frowned. Shepard certainly took more than enough knocks to the head, and after the Leviathan incident she wanted to be especially careful, but nothing was showing up on scans. “No. Why? Any symptoms?”

 

Shepard grimaced. “No. Headache, maybe, but that’s not unusual.”

 

“I’m not detecting anything unusual,” Karin said after a moment. “I prescribe rest, hydration, and judicious use of painkillers. And by ‘rest’ I do not mean straining your eyes staring at reports.”

 

“Understood,” Shepard said, and Karin heard, quite clearly, how she did not say _yes, Doctor, of course I’ll rest_.

 

“Your right shoulder concerns me. You are re-injuring it so frequently that the ligaments never fully heal.”

 

“I know.” Shepard rolled the shoulder in question, cautiously. “It’s never been quite right since Sovereign.”

 

Karin’s lips thinned at this. A considerable portion of the tissue had been replaced during Shepard’s resurrection; that old injury ought not to have such lingering effects. “If you would consider using a lighter weapon—”

 

Shepard shook her head. “I know the heavier shotguns aren’t doing it any good, but then again they’re keeping me alive.”

 

“I’d recommend surgery, but that’s inadvisable in our current circumstances.”

 

Shepard was already shaking her head again. “I don’t have time to be out of commission now.”

 

It was, Karin thought, unfair that so much of the war effort came down to the one young woman sitting in front of her. Shepard looked as tired as Karin had ever seen her, thinner, skin paler than usual, though dark-circled under her eyes. “I know,” she said briskly. “You should consider it after the war, however.”

 

The corner of Shepard’s mouth turned up. “Right. After. Is that all, doc?”

 

“For now,” Karin said. “Rest, remember.”

 

“I remember.”

 

Shepard left. Karin kept an eye out the window while she updated her reports and saw her head to the elevator. A few minutes later Liara came storming away from the elevator toward her office, and a few minutes after that Shepard followed. “EDI,” Karin said, still half watching, “what’s going on?”

 

“Liara and Javik had an altercation,” EDI replied promptly.

 

“Any injuries?”

 

“No. Liara appears unusually distraught.”

 

“Indeed,” Karin murmured. Thessia was, after all, Liara’s home; yet her sympathy was qualified, for nearly every other member of the crew had a homeworld under fire, as well, and for far longer.

 

Shepard left Liara’s office with a droop to her posture than made Karin frown. She watched through the medbay’s windows as Shepard ran into Garrus, on his way back to his workstation in the battery. They talked briefly; Karin saw his hand twitch toward Shepard, but he didn’t touch her. Shepard shook her head, and they parted, Garrus toward the battery and Shepard toward the elevator.

 

Yes. It was time for that brandy. Karin found the bottle in her cabinet and wondered, as she took the weight of it into her hands, what the fate of Serrice was. The supply of its legendary ice brandy could not be extensive, not any more, and she was too much of a realist to think otherwise.

 

She found Shepard, as she expected, hunched over her terminal, rubbing absently at her right shoulder. “Commander,” she said firmly, though she couldn’t quite help smiling. “Take a break. I insist.”

 

Shepard spun the chair around, looking startled. “Dr. Chakwas? I wasn’t expecting you.”

 

“No, you weren’t.” Karin located a pair of glasses and started pouring. “I had the bottle, and thought it was time to share it.”

 

Shepard smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I thought we already did that this year.”

 

“The time seemed right,” Karin said softly.

 

It was less celebratory then their last two appointments. Shepard’s mood was quiet, though restless. “We were never there to save the planet,” she said abruptly, after Karin had carried the conversation through a string of reminiscences.

 

She raised her eyebrows. “Who said you were?”

 

Shepard grimaced, rubbing the back of her neck. “Liara—didn’t take things well.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“I don’t know what she thought. Did she really think the Reapers would never come for Thessia? Is that what all the asari leaders thought? And why didn’t they— damn it.” She set down her glass, hard. It hit the surface of the desk with a _clunk_. “They’ve been holding back information all this time. Years. If they’d believed me, if they’d said something three months ago—or three _years_ ago—Thessia might not be suffering no. Or Earth, or Palaven, or Kahje...” She lifted her hand from the glass to her forehead. “And Cerberus might not have the data we desperately need. And I can’t say any of that to Liara, no matter how much it needs saying, because I need her working, not collapsing. Damn them _all_.”

 

Her voice was shaking. It was rare, so rare, to see Shepard lose her composure like this, but it wasn’t a shock; Karin had been wondering for some time when Shepard would reach her breaking point. She reached out and laid a hand on the younger woman’s arm. “It’s difficult, having to deal with others’ mistakes,” she said gently.

 

Shepard let out a short laugh. “You said it. I guess you’d know about that, wouldn’t you, Doctor?” She reached for the bottle, now mostly empty, and refilled her glass.

 

“Hmm.” Karin sat back in her chair. “I suppose I know a few things. The trick with surgery, you know, is that you can never restore something to the way it once was. A good surgeon can get very close, but,” she shrugged, “there will always be a scar. And old injuries—an old break that didn’t heal correctly, a botched surgery that has to be done again—repairing those is more effort, and usually causes more pain than the original injury.”

 

“No wonder everything is so damned difficult,” Shepard muttered, lifting the glass. “Here’s to those of us who fix other people’s messes.” She took a drink without waking for a response.

 

Karin eyed her thoughtfully, but Shepard seemed more relaxed for the outburst, and possibly for the alcohol. Karin finished her own glass, savoring the complex flavor of the brandy. Likely the last time she’d have it, and therefore all the more appropriate to mark and remember the occasion.

 

The door swished open behind her; Karin glanced around to see Garrus coming in. He stopped when he saw them. “What, I wasn’t invited? I’m hurt.”

 

“Don’t look at me,” Shepard said. “It was the good doctor’s idea.”

 

“Well, I suppose I owe her one,” he said, his hand drifting to the scarred side of his neck.

 

Karin snorted. “I should say so. That sounds like my cue to go, however.” She got to her feet, setting down the glass. “I shall leave the commander in your capable hands, Garrus. See that she rests.”

 

“I’m fine,” Shepard protested, but Garrus nodded, ignoring her, and Karin smiled in satisfaction. That was two of her charges taken care of; perhaps she’d go look in on Liara before returning to her office.

 

 


	32. Hero (Conrad Verner)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conrad Verner goes to a funeral.

It was a really great funeral.

 

A funeral fit for a hero like Shepard.

 

Conrad Verner stood in the back while a succession of people in formal uniforms and black suits took the podium, and, one by one, said solemn things about Shepard.

 

Up front there was an asari in a green dress crying like she’d lost her best friend, while a quarian in purple veils put an arm around her shoulders. Conrad remembered the quarian. She’d been there that day.

 

He’d thought about not going to the funeral. He’d admired Shepard, he’d looked up to her, and what had she done? Shoved a gun in his face, that’s what.

 

_“Conrad, you have no idea what it takes to get the job done.”_

 

He remembered every detail of it, the hard barrel of the gun against his chin, the shock that had gone through him, but most of all the look on Shepard’s face. He’d been close enough to see every detail: the ridges of scar tissue that slashed across her forehead and jaw, the sharp eyebrows drawn down, her nostrils flaring. The part he really couldn’t forget was her eyes: green and cold and hard, with anger or maybe even contempt, and he’d never felt smaller or less useful in his life.

 

He’d gone home to his apartment shaken and half-dazed. He’d almost gotten rid of his souvenirs: the autograph and the photo and all the rest of it. If she wasn’t really a hero, if she was the kind of person who’d threaten someone just for making a harmless suggestion, for wanting to help, then maybe he didn’t want any of it after all. Maybe he should just get rid of it all. He could probably get a pretty good price for a lot of it, from some fan who didn’t know any better, like he did.

 

In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d actually taken the photo down, the big one she’d let him take, the one where she was holding a gun. Was it the same gun? He wasn’t sure.

 

But he’d taken it off the wall and looked at it, really looked, at the angular profile of her face. He could see the scars there, too, and he wondered how she’d gotten them. What battle had given them to her? Who’d gotten close enough to leave marks on her face? What had that day been like? How much had it hurt?

 

He’d turned the picture around, slowly, so he didn’t have to look at it any more, but he decided not to get rid of it all the way.

 

He’d looked at the back of the picture every day, every time he went in or out of the apartment, blank and plain, hiding the face of the first human Spectre. Every day, right up to the day the geth attacked the Citadel.

 

That day had been full of chaos and screaming and gunfire. He’d been at work when the attack came, and he and everyone else had just barricaded themselves into a conference room, getting sporadic updates before the power and comms went out entirely and they’d had to wait in the dark, more than one of them sniffling. Afterward, they’d heard all the stories, how the geth and that turian Spectre and his terrible warship had attacked the Citadel. He’d watched the interviews, too, where Shepard, with her arm in a sling, smiled and talked about a new age of cooperation, and how she couldn’t have done it without her crew, and how there might be even bigger threats on the horizon.

 

His own apartment hadn’t been too badly damaged, since the geth attack had been concentrated on the Presidium. He’d just had a few things to repair here and there. When he was done, he’d turned the framed picture around again to look at Shepard’s profile. He could get even more credits for the picture now, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. He understood a little better now, he thought. People like him, they’d been hiding away in locked rooms while the geth rampaged the Citadel, while Shepard did whatever she did to stop them. No wonder she’d looked at him like that. He put the picture back on the wall. It was a good shot, if he did say so himself, and he felt more comfortable looking at her when she wasn’t looking back.

 

He couldn’t quite forgive her for the gun, though.

 

But then she’d died. A huge shock for everyone. He’d been walking home through the wards when the news broke, the headline coming up big and bold on all the news terminals. He’d just stood and stared as the text “COMMANDER SHEPARD REPORTED KILLED IN ACTION” flashed up, superimposed on all the smiling interview footage and publicity pictures they’d taken only a few weeks earlier. People next to him in the crowd had gasped and stopped, too, even the aliens, and two people near him had started crying.

 

Conrad had gone home, still stunned, and had poured himself a drink and stared at that picture for a long time, trying to read some kind of emotion into that face. When the funeral service was announced, a week or two later, he’d hesitated, but it had only seemed right to go. He’d met her, after all, even if it hadn’t been what he expected. She’d... she’d really given him a lot of her time, considering all the responsibilities of a Spectre.

 

The speakers said a lot of things about heroism and sacrifice and duty. They were all human, though there were quite a few aliens in the crowd, and Conrad could see her old crew gathered up front, the asari in their midst.

 

Conrad left as the gathering started to break up. Somehow he didn’t feel angry any more, just sad. With Shepard gone, who would do the dirty work that needed to get done?

 

It was going to take a new hero.


	33. Survival (Zaeed Massani)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zaeed doesn't make friends easily.

Zaeed Massani would have laid good credits that the turian wouldn’t make it. Not like anyone would’ve taken the bet. Shepard might have shot him just for suggesting it.

 

He was on his feet now, though, stiff in bandages and shattered armor, giving Zaeed a look like he’d rather be sighting through his scope.

 

“So,” Zaeed drawled. “You’re the mighty goddamn Archangel.” He couldn’t hate anyone who’d riled up Tarak and the Suns on Omega that badly.

 

The good mandible twitched. “Massani,” he returned. “I’ve heard about you.”

 

Wasn’t bothering to hide the threatening subharmonics. Maybe Vakarian figured Zaeed didn’t know what he was hearing. Didn’t spent two decades out in the galaxy with mercs and not learn a thing or two about how turians talked, though. Zaeed decided to ignore it. “You and the rest of the Terminus.” Zaeed bit down on the cigar Lawson had forbidden him from lighting anywhere but his own quarters. “Next time we go ashore, I owe you a drink.”

 

Vakarian blinked and the mandible twitched again. “What for?”

 

“Tarak.” Goddamn batarian had been there, that day, young and scrawny, one of Vido’s lieutenants.

 

“I think you owe Shepard, then.”

 

Zaeed shrugged. “You wanna turn down a free drink, that’s your business, Archangel.”

 

His posture hardened. “Archangel’s supposed to be dead. Let’s stick to Vakarian.”

 

Zaeed shrugged again. “Whatever you say.”

 

Vakarian was still giving him that look. “Your rep is, once you’re paid, you stay bought.”

 

“That’s right.” Zaeed leaned back in his chair and put one booted foot on the mess hall table, ignoring the glare the cook shot him over the counter.

 

“Better not turn on Shepard, then,” Vakarian said, letting the threatening buzz into his primary vocals.

 

Zaeed’s lips drew back. “Or what? I should take you out first?”

 

The turian’s gaze sharpened. Then he deliberately turned his back and stalked toward the battery.

 

Zaeed snorted. Cocky bastard. Just as well he hadn’t found anyone to take that bet, though. Should have known better than to bet against anyone that good at pissing people off.

 

#

 

“So I was holed up with two techs who couldn’t shoot straight,” Zaeed said, tossing a chip into the pot.

 

“Fold,” said Daniels. Smart girl. Much smarter than Donnelly—

 

“Raise,” Donnelly said.

 

Goddamn perfect. Exactly where Zaeed wanted him.

 

Vakarian had already folded, and sat watching the round; Taylor, staring at his cards, threw a chip into the heap as well.

 

Zaeed cleared his throat and continued. “Holed up in some shitty prefab, and Monteague says—”

 

There was a clatter. He stared across the table at Vakarian, who’d knocked over a stack of chips in front of him. “Who?”

 

“Monteague. One of the techs. Smart guy. Naive. Like I said, couldn’t shoot straight.”

 

“He got better,” Vakarian muttered, almost in spite of himself.

 

Zaeed’s gaze narrowed. “You know him?” Monteague had made it out of that one, Zaeed had never been sure how, they’d split up. He was about to get to that part of the story. Goddamn naive kid seemed like the type that’d get mixed up with someone like Vakarian. Or Shepard.

 

It was a moment before the turian answered. “Used to. He’s dead now.” His hand rose to touch the frame of his visor.

 

Zaeed grunted. “Goddamn shame.” Monteague hadn’t been a bad sort to drink with. Or play cards with. Maybe he’d been the source of Vakarian’s knowledge of the game, rather than Shepard, as Zaeed had assumed. Shepard didn’t join them much, but Donnelly still talked about how she’d cleaned him and Daniels out back at the start.

 

“Yeah,” Vakarian said, short and clipped, and the game moved on.

 

#

 

You saw a lot of strange things out in the Terminus Systems, but the inside of the Collector ship beat anything Zaeed had seen for a long time. Too quiet. Too wet. Seemed to be dampness rising out of every surface, and the floors squelched a little underfoot. Zaeed grimaced when no one was looking at him. Reminded him of what mud mixed with blood felt like, and there was no time for that kind of thing right now. No matter how quiet it was, there had to be goddamn Collector bugs around here somewhere. He and Shepard and Vakarian made their way through the vast ship with all sense alert, steady and businesslike. Get the job done and get out.

 

Wasn’t going to be that easy, of course, and he didn’t think a one of them was surprised when the floor they stood on started moving and Collectors started buzzing down at them. They knew what they were doing by now, though, how to take the buggy bastards down. It was nearly a pleasure to fight alongside the two of them, really; Vakarian was as pretty a shot as he’d ever seen, and Shepard was a goddamn force of nature. Which was a good thing, because half of the goddamn oversized insects weren’t interested in anything but going straight after her. He and Vakarian had to keep an eye on her all the time no matter how much she pinged around just so they could cover her ass.

 

Afterward, Zaeed cleaned his rifles and cleaned Jessie just because, all the while thinking it over. All those goddamn pods, enough to pack away a hefty chunk of the human race. Going for Earth, Vakarian had said. Earth was a shitty enough planet, stinking and overpopulated, but that didn’t mean the Collectors got to attack it. Nor whatever was controlling the Collectors, either.

 

He’d heard the Reaper rumors before. Hadn’t particularly believed in ‘em, though it wasn’t the strangest rumor about the end times he’d ever heard, either. This, now—after Horizon, and after this, it was sure as hell looking like there was a mess of trouble coming down the pike.

 

Disgruntled, he headed up to the bar and grunted a greeting to the thief, who was curled up on the couch with one of her novels. She’d put it about that she didn’t mind anyone coming in for a drink during reasonable hours, so Zaeed went straight to the bar and poured himself a shot of the strongest stuff she had.

 

He wasn’t too surprised when Vakarian came in a few minutes later. Was a little more surprised when the turian poured himself a shot of horosk and knocked it back. Far as he could tell, the turian wasn’t a heavy drinker. Probably too goddamned uptight. “Hell of a day,” Zaeed said by way of greeting.

 

Vakarian snorted. “You said it.”

 

They both poured themselves second glasses. Zaeed clinked his shot glass against Vakarian’s. “Every mission with Shepard like this?” he inquired.

 

“More often than you’d think.”

 

Zaeed chuckled. They both drank. Two shots was enough, Zaeed decided. He didn’t feel like getting shitfaced today, and put his bottle away. “Hell of a lot of work to do to be ready for this mission,” he grumbled.

 

Vakarian shot him a glance as he capped his own bottle. “Yeah.”

 

“Best get to it, then.”

 

Vakarian flicked out a mandible in one of those turian razor-sharp smiles.

 

#

 

Survival was a hell of a thing.

 

Zaeed knew a thing or two about surviving. He knew what kind of stubborn it took to carry yourself through a situation that would kill most others.

 

Surviving with the whole squad intact? That was a whole different beast.

 

He glanced around the lounge. Half of ‘em might be walking wounded, but everyone was lively. Goto was at the bar mixing drinks and talking to Jack. Everyone else was hanging around in twos and threes, too. Even Samara had come out of her goddamn meditation cave.

 

Not a lot of people could have pulled off the shit they’d done at the Collector Base. All of them had been pushed to the limit, but he still wasn’t sure how Shepard had done it.

 

He caught her eye from across the room and tipped his glass toward her. She grinned back and raised her glass in turn.

 

Hell of a fighter, that woman. Goddamn crazy, but a hell of a fighter.

 

Vakarian settled into the seat next to Zaeed stiffly. “Thanks for covering me, back there,” he said.

 

Zaeed knew what he was talking about—a messy bit of fighting, that first leg of their push through the base. The turian had been so busy keeping an eye on the others, he’d almost missed the Collector coming up behind him. “Don’t mention it. Part of the job. You returned the favor later.” On the second leg of their push, when Tali had gotten pulled out of position and Zaeed had gotten himself flanked before Vakarian’s shot took the Collector’s head off.

 

Vakarian shrugged. “Part of the job,” he echoed. They both drank.

 

Lot of debts owed, that day. The problem with hanging around people like Shepard is that you got out of the habit of keeping track, of who owed who. Not a good habit.

 

Tonight he was going to be in a good goddamned mood, though.


	34. Mourning (David Anderson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David Anderson reflects on his protege.

Somehow, David Anderson had to put all his anger aside, stand before the crowd in his dress uniform, and lay his protege to rest.

 

Shepard was too young. Too promising. Too good at what she did. The way she’d died had been a marine’s worst nightmare—attacking ship, hull breach, nothing that could be fought, no use for a marine’s skills. Anderson would have torn a strip off Moreau for not getting his ass out of his pilot’s seat, except that the flight lieutenant was clearly already tearing himself apart over it.

 

And already Udina was making noises about locating a new human candidate for Spectre, already the Council was drawing back from the Reaper story, already less-than-flattering reports about Shepard were hitting the media.

 

And here Anderson stood, with an empty coffin in front of him. They hadn’t even been able to find her on that frozen rock where the shattered remains of the _Normandy_ would stay forever. No time and no willingness for a thorough search, not out in the Terminus Systems, practically in Omega’s backyard. They’d burned enough political capital bringing back the survivors. Some of the Alliance techs on the scene had opined that Shepard probably hadn’t been caught in Alchera’s gravity well at all. The thought of tough, vibrant Shepard drifting in space forever made Anderson feel both old and angry all over again.

 

He managed to rein it in long enough to give the eulogy. Most of it had been written by Alliance PR people—part of him would have liked to write the whole thing himself, but he’d had so little _time_ , and none of it came out right when he tried. So he said predictable things about heroism and sacrifice and duty, straight from the PR folks.

 

He stopped himself near the end of the speech, paused and looked out over the assembled crowd. No matter how pat the words he was saying were, half of them were crying anyway, and all of them looked somber. “Shepard was a remarkable person,” he said. “It was a delight to know her, a privilege and an honor to serve with her, and we are all in her debt.”

 

He wasn’t sure those words were any less trite, but they had the advantage of being true.

 

Over the next two years, the anger never quite died. Foolish, maybe, to carry that much rage about the death of a protege, even one like Shepard. It wasn’t just the fact of her death, though. It was the pointlessness of it. It was the lies and obfuscation and complacency that had come to surround the issue of Shepard’s death, of the geth, and of the Reapers. It was a level of anger that maybe wasn’t so good for a man in his profession, a soldier turned diplomat. His position as councilor gave him an up-close-and-personal view of the other councilors’ flaws and failings.

 

They were numerous.

 

He got it, to an extent. After all, he was in the same position as they were: trying to balance the interests of his species against the interests of the galaxy as a whole, trying to work with the others while still answering to the elected representatives back on Earth and Arcturus. It wasn’t easy. God, did he know that.

 

But every slight, every dismissal of the whole notion of Reapers, every hint that Shepard had been lying or deceived... every one of those stoked the anger, and he had to keep it all banked while he put on the polite face and tone of a politician.

 

It was no wonder he was drinking more. Not too much, he didn’t think, but there were some nights when there was just nothing else for it.

 

Anderson never wanted a drink more than the day he sat at his desk with his door locked, looking at the highly classified reports spread out before him. Some had come in from Alliance intel. Others he’d gotten by pulling some strings and slipping Barla Von a substantial sum of credits. It was grainy camera footage from Omega; the quality was crap, but it sure looked like her. Right look, right armor, right posture. A lot better than the impostor that had popped up a year and a half ago and been debunked within a week.

 

If it was Shepard, he didn’t much like the company she was keeping. And he was going to have to send the volus another stack of credits, or call in a favor, to get him to cough up an extranet mail address. Somehow Anderson doubted the old one still worked.

 

He scowled at the pictures. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Shepard.”

 

This was going to open up a hell of a lot of problems. He could just imagine Udina’s voice listing off all the political problems Shepard’s abrupt reappearance could cause.

 

Even so, for once he was having trouble locating that deep well of anger, beneath an almost lunatic rejoicing.


End file.
